THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE   PRELUDE, 


OR 


GROWTH    OF   A   POETS    MIND; 


&ut0Mograpjjtcal 


BY   WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 


WITH  NOTES 


BY  A.  J.   GEORGE,   A.M., 

ACTING   PROFESSOR   OF  ENGLISH    LITERATURE   IN   BOSTON   UNIVERSITY; 

INSTRUCTOR  IN   ENGLISH   LITERATURE  IN  THE 

NEWTON   HIGH  SCHOOL. 


"  The  child  is  father  of  the  man.'1'1 


BOSTON  : 

D.   C.   HEATH   &   CO.,   PUBLISHERS. 
1888. 


COPYRIGHT,  1888, 
BY  A.  J.  GEORGE, 


J.  S.  GUSHING  &  Co.,  PRINTERS,  BOSTON. 


STACK  ANNEX 


TO  THE  MEMORY 


Norman  f^utoson,  3L3L23., 


VHOSE  RARE  QUALITIES  OF  MIND  AND  HEART  WERE  REVEALED 

TO    ME    IN    A    LONG   AND    LOVING  INTIMACY,  AND   WHOSE 

COUNSEL,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  AND   FRIENDSHIP  HAVE 

BEEN    AMONG   THE    BLESSINGS   OF    MY    LIFE, 

THIS    SELECTION    FROM    HIS   BELOVED 

POET    IS    AFFECTIONATELY 

INSCRIBED. 


PREFACE. 


The  gods  talk  in  the  breath  of  the  woods, 

They  talk  in  the  shaken  pine, 
And  fill  the  long  reach  of  the  old  seashore 

With  dialogue  divine. 
And  the  poet  who  overhears 

Some  random  word  they  say, 
Is  the  fated  man  of  men 

Whom  the  ages  must  obey.* 

IT  is  interesting  in  our  survey  of  the  past  to  study  the  crises  in 
the  world's  history,  and  notice  how  Providence  has,  by  particular 
surroundings  and  education,  prepared  special  men  for  special 
emergencies.  Seers,  prophets,  and  teachers  have  been  divinely 
raised  up  to  interpret  the  mind  of  God  to  men,  the 

Heroes,  Sages,  Bards  sublime, 
And  all  that  fetched  the  flowing  rhyme 
From  genuine  springs. 

In  one  of  these  crises,  —  that  of  the  last  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  —  there  was  a  stirring  of  the  depths  in  all  departments  of 
human  life.  Literature,  the  outcome  of  the  whole  life  of  a  people, 
was  consequently  involved  in  the  revolutionary  conflagration 
which  ran  over  all  the  European  world,  from  the  ashes  of  which 
arose  new  ideas  of  mankind. 

Poetry  had  been  removed  from  its  natural  home,  the  country, 
and  was  forced  to  do  service  in  the  artificial  surroundings  of  city 
life.  In  the  hands  of  Dryden  and  Pope  it  had  been  shorn  of  all 

1  Emerson. 


vi  PREFACE. 

its  natural  charms,  and  appeared  in  court  dress  with  "  ruffles  and 
rapier."     It  dealt  with  the  outside  aspects  and  artificial  manners 
of  the  people,  and  lost  sight  of  the  human  heart,  — 
The  haunt  and  main  region  of  song. 

During  this  time,  Providence  was  rearing  amid  the  rural  scenery 
of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  one  who  was  to  stand  forth 
as  the  exponent  and  defender  of  the  Beautiful,  the  True,  and 
the  Good  in  English  poesy,  and  by  whose  heroic  struggle  the 
Muse  was  to  be  returned  to  her  long-lost  home. 

The  face  of  English  literature  was  changed  by  that  infusion  of 
new  blood  from  the  hearts  of  such  men  as  constituted  the  new 
brotherhood.  Out  of  the  souls  of  Cowper,  Wordsworth,  and 
Coleridge  the  poetry  of  freedom,  of  equal  rights  and  of  universal 
brotherhood,  sprang  full-grown  into  a  life  of  earnest  protest 
against  tyranny  of  all  kinds,  political,  moral,  or  priestly,  —  into  a 
life  which  was  to  endure  no  decay. 

The  pitiless  storm  of  ribaldry  and  abuse  which  the  leader  of 
this  new  movement  of  a  return  to  nature  had  to  encounter,  was 
such  as  would  have  discouraged  any  one  but  him  who  knew  no  fear 
save  the  fear  to  do  wrong.  Clad  in  the  strength  of  a  lofty  and  con- 
secrated purpose,  he  stood  through  the  long  pelting,  true  to  himself, 
and  all  the  time  calmly  singing  from  his  retirement  at  Rydal :  — 

For  thus  I  live  remote 
From  evil-speaking ;  rancor  never  sought 
Comes  to  me  not ;  malignant  truth,  or  lie. 
Hence  have  I  genial  seasons,  hence  have  I 
Smooth  passion,  smooth  discourse  and  joyous  thought. 

Not  a  note  of  querulousness  or  bitterness  escaped  him.  This 
was  not  the  calm  of  indifference,  but  the  calm  of  a  nature  capable 
of  storms  of  indignation,  yet  under  the  sway  of  a  powerful  will. 
The  great  Preceptress  by  whom  he  was  educated  did  not  allow 
him  to  remain  in  the  quietude  of  Nature.  The  poet  of  Humanity 

must  needs 

see  ill  sights 
Of  madding  passions  mutually  inflamed ; 


PREFACE.  vii 

or 

hang 

Brooding  above  the  fierce  confederate  storm 
Of  sorrow,  barricado'd  evermore 
Within  the  walls  of  cities. 

On  his  first  entrance  to  London  a  new  and  truer  idea  of  man 
arose  within  him,  and  in  passing  to  that  theatre  where  the  first 
acts  in  the  mighty  drama  of  Revolution  were  being  enacted,  a 
revolution  was  produced  in  his  own  mind,  and  he  was  seized  with 
those  ideas  which  added  to  his  enthusiasm  for  Nature  that  enthu- 
siasm for  Man  which  characterized  all  his  work,  and  raised  him 
to  the  imperial  height  of  a  poet  of  the  first  order,  —  a  poet  of  the 
"  moral  depths  of  the  human  soul." 

Blessings  be  with  them  —  and  eternal  praise, 
Who  gave  us  nobler  loves  and  nobler  cares,  — 
The  Poets — who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 

Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays ! 
Oh !  might  my  name  be  numbered  among  theirs ; 

Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days. 

Thus  wrote  Wordsworth  in  1805,  and  long  and  patiently  did 
he  wait  for  the  answer  to  his  prayer.  At  last,  in  the  summer  of 
1839,  he  was  permitted  to  realize  that  for  which  he  had  labored 
so  assiduously  and  prayed  so  earnestly,  when,  by  the  foremost 
university  of  his  land  and  the  world,  he  was  honored  as  one  of 
the  chief  glories  of  English  poetry  and  the  greatest  name  since 
Milton. 

Keble,  the  professor  of  Poetry  in  the  University,  introduced 
him  as  being  "  one  who  had  shed  a  celestial  light  upon  the  affec- 
tions, the  occupations,  and  the  piety  of  the  poor."  The  ovation 
which  he  received  was  such  as  had  never  been  witnessed  there 
before,  except  upon  the  occasion  of  the  visit  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington. The  long  battle  had  been  patiently  and  courageously 
fought,  and  victory  was  at  length  achieved.  Of  this  victory  the 
Rev.  Frederick  Robertson  says  :  — 


Viii  PREFACE. 

"  It  was  my  lot,  during  a  short  university  career,  to  witness  a 
transition  and  a  reaction,  or  revulsion,  of  public  feeling  with  regard 
to  two  great  men.  The  first  of  these  was  Arnold  of  Rugby ; 
the  second,  Wordsworth.  When  he  came  forward  to  receive  his 
honorary  degree,  scarcely  had  his  name  been  pronounced  than 
from  three  thousand  voices  at  once  there  broke  forth  a  burst  of 
applause  echoed  and  taken  up  again  and  again.  There  were 
young  eyes  then  filled  with  an  emotion  of  which  they  had  no 
need  to  be  ashamed ;  there  were  hearts  beating  with  the  proud 
feeling  of  triumph  that  at  last  the  world  had  recognized  the  merit 
of  the  man  they  had  loved  so  long  and  acknowledged  as  their 
teacher." 

In  1843  a  stiN  greater  honor  was  conferred  upon  him  at  the 
hands  of  the  young  Queen.  He  was  urged  to  accept  the  Laureate- 
ship,  but  gratefully  and  respectfully  declined,  as  he  considered 
that  his  years  unfitted  him  for  the  discharge  of  its  duties.  He 
was  then  in  his  seventy-fourth  year.  This  brought  a  letter  from 
the  Prime  Minister,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  urging  his  acceptance  of  the 
appointment,  saying,  "As  the  Queen  can  select  for  this  honor- 
able appointment  no  one  whose  claims  for  respect  and  honor,  on 
account  of  eminence  as  a  poet,  can  be  placed  in  competition  with 
you,  I  trust  that  you  will  no  longer  hesitate  to  accept  it.  There 
is  but  one  unanimous  feeling  on  the  part  of  all  who  have  heard 
of  the  proposal. 

"The  offer  was  made  not  for  the  purpose  of  imposing  upon 
you  any  onerous  task  or  disagreeable  duties,  but  in  order  to  pay 
you  that  tribute  of  respect  which  is  justly  due  to  the  first  of  living 
poets." 

This  letter  removed  his  scruples,  and  the  laurel  wreath  was 
placed  upon  the  brows  "  of  him  who  uttered  nothing  base."  He 
produced  but  little  poetry  after  this  date ;  but  there  is  one  poem, 
written  in  1846  upon  the  fly-leaf  of  a  gift  copy  of  his  poems,  pre- 
sented to  the  Royal  Library  at  Windsor  Castle,  which  is  of 
special  interest  (in  this  Jubilee  Year),  as  connected  with  his 
Laureateship. 


PREFACE.  ix 

As  it  does  not  appear  in  any  edition  of  his  works,  I  give  it 
entire :  — 

Deign,  Sovereign  Mistress !  to  accept  a  lay, 

No  Laureate  offering  of  elaborate  art; 
But  salutation,  taking  its  glad  way 
From  deep  recesses  of  a  loyal  heart 

Queen,  wife,  and  mother!  may  all-judging  Heaven 
Shower  with  a  bounteous  hand  on  thee  and  thine 

Felicity,  that  only  can  be  given 
On  earth  to  goodness  blessed  by  grace  divine. 

Lady !  devoutly  honored  and  beloved 
Through  every  realm  confided  to  thy  sway ; 

May'st  thou  pursue  thy  course  by  God  approved, 
And  he  will  teach  thy  people  to  obey. 

As  thou  art  wont  thy  sovereignty  adorn 

With  woman's  gentleness,  yet  firm  and  staid ; 

So  shall  that  earthly  crown  thy  brows  have  worn 
Be  changed  to  one  whose  glory  cannot  fade. 

And  now,  by  duty  urged,  I  lay  this  book 

Before  thy  Majesty  in  humble  trust, 
That  on  its  simplest  pages  thou  wilt  look 

With  a  benign  indulgence,  more  than  just. 

Nor  wilt  thou  blame  an  aged  poet's  prayer, 
That,  issuing  hence,  may  steal  into  thy  mind, 

Some  solace  under  weight  of  royal  care. 
Or  grief,  the   inheritance  of  human  kind. 

For  know  we  not  that  from  celestial  spheres 
When  time  was  young  an  inspiration  came, 

(O  were  it  mine  !)  to  hallow  saddest  tears 
And  help  life  onward  in  its  noblest  aim? 

W.  W. 
RYDAL  MOUNT,  gth  January,  1846. 

He  had  sung  his  nunc  dimittis,  and  composed  no  longer.     His 
mission  was  completed.    The  bright  dream  of  his  boyhood  was 


x  PREFACE. 

fulfilled,  and  that  spirit  singled  out  for  holy  services,  after  the 
discipline  of  sadness  and  suffering,  entered  into  its  rest. 

His  body  lies,  as  he  had  requested,  in  the  churchyard  at 
Grasmere,  in  the  bosom  of  that  dear  vale  where  he  had  lived  and 
loved  and  sung ;  surrounded  by  the  Dalesmen  whom  he  honored  ; 
beneath  the  shade  of  those  yews  planted  by  his  own  hands,  in 
sound  of  Rotha  murmuring  her  plaintive  strain  that 

"  few  or  none 
Hear  her  voice  right  now  he  is  gone." 

While  round  about  in  phalanx  firm  stand  the  mountains  old, 
faithful  guardians  of  the  sacred  spot.  Earth  has  no  more  fitting 
resting-place  for  the  dust  of  William  Wordsworth. 

Plain  is  the  stone  that  marks  the  Poet's  rest ; 

Not  marble  worked  beneath  Italian  skies  — 

A  grey  slate  headstone  tells  where  Wordsworth  lies, 

Cleft  from  the  native  hills  he  loved  the  best. 

No  heavier  thing  upon  his  gentle  breast 

Than  turf  starred  o'er  in  spring  with  daisy  eyes, 

Nor  richer  music  makes  him  lullabies 

Than  Rotha  fresh  from  yonder  mountain  crest. 

His  name,  his  date,  the  years  he  lived  to  sing, 

Are  deep  incised  and  eloquently  terse ; 

But  Fancy  hears  the  graver's  hammer  ring, 

And  sees  mid  lines  of  much  remembered  verse 

These  words  in  gold  beneath  his  title  wrought  — 

"  Singer  of  Humble  Themes  and  Noble  Thought."  l 

There  was  but  one  thing  more  which  his  countrymen  could  do 
for  him,  and  this  was  not  long  left  undone,  for  in  the  Venerable 
Abbey,  surrounded  by  the  medallion  of  Keble  and  the  busts  of 
Kingsley  and  Maurice,  may  be  seen  the  life-size  statue  of  the 
poet  in  white  marble  :  he  is  represented  seated  in  the  attitude  of 
contemplation,  the  characteristic  of  all  his  portraits  being  thus 
strikingly  reproduced  in  the  marble.  Underneath  are  engraved 

1  H.  D.  Rawnsley. 


PREFACE.  xi 

the  words  above  quoted,  "  Blessings  be  with  them  and  eternal 
praise,"  etc. 

The  world  has  not  often  seen  a  life  so  well  rounded  and  sym- 
metrical, a  soul  so  strong  and  lofty,  consecrate  itself  to  a  single 
purpose.  Few  poets  have  bequeathed  to  the  world  such  a  legacy 
of  lofty  thought  and  ennobling  feeling  which  will  cause  all  who 
love  it  to  think  the  more  deeply  and  feel  the  more  tenderly,  thus 
making  men  "  wiser,  better,  and  happier." 

Professor  Shairp  says  :  "No  poet  of  modern  times  has  had  in 
him  so  much  of  the  prophet.  What  earth's  far-off,  lonely  moun- 
tains do  for  the  plains  and  cities,  that  Wordsworth  has  done  and 
will  do  for  literature,  and  through  literature  for  society;  sending 
down  great  streams  of  higher  truth,  fresh,  purifying  winds  of 
feeling  to  those  who  least  dream  from  what  quarter  they  came. 
The  more  thoughtful  of  each  generation  will  draw  nearer  and 
observe  him  more  closely,  will  ascend  his  imaginative  heights 
and  sit  under  the  shadow  of  his  profound  meditations,  and  in 
proportion  as  they  do  so  will  they  become  more  noble  and  pure 

in  heart." 

The  sunrise  on  his  breezy  lake, 

The  rosy  tints  his  sunset  caught, 
World  seen  are  gladdening  all  the  vales 
And  mountain  peaks  of  thought.1 

Accepting  these  estimates  of  the  work  and  influence  of  Words- 
worth, my  aim  is  to  bring  before  the  reader  this  simple  narrative 
of  the  ways  in  which  his  childhood  walked  and  of  what  first  led 
him  to  the  love  of  rivers,  woods,  and  hills,  and  how  the  love  of 
nature  led  him  up  to  the  love  of  man.  Goethe  said,  if  you  would 
understand  an  author,  you  must  understand  his  age.  There  can 
be  no  more  interesting  or  profitable  study  than  that  which  seeks 
to  determine  by  what  principles,  methods,  chances,  and  changes, 
by  what  impulses  of  the  mind  and  heart,  a  great  personality  im- 
presses itself  upon  the  intellectual  history  of  a  nation,  and  feeds 
it  with  moral  truth  and  human  passion. 

»  Whittier. 


xii  PREFACE. 

It  is  to  William  Wordsworth  that  we  owe  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury renaissance  in  English  poetry,  because  he  led  it  a  step 
farther  than  it  had  gone  before,  and  penetrated  the  heart  of  man 
where  it  seemed  that  all  were  known  and  explored ;  he  gave  it  a 
style  which  found  itself  the  style  of  everybody,  —  a  style  at  once 
new  and  antique  because  contemporary  with  all  the  ages.  In  a 
word,  he  gave  to  poetry  a  "vital  soul." 

He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 
Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round ; 
He  spoke  and  loosed  our  heart  in  tears. 
****** 
Our  youth  returned ;  for  there  was  shed. 
On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead, 
Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furled, 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world.1 

It  is  the  element  of  personality  in  Wordsworth's  poetry  which 
gives  it  its  influence  over  the  minds  of  those  who  enter  into  vital 
relations  with  it.  He  everywhere  speaks  to  man's  entire  being. 
His  profound  thoughts,  his  vivid  illustration,  his  ennobling  sensi- 
bility, and  his  wise  reflection  have  to  do  with  the  "here  and 
now,"  —  the  sphere  of  our  interests,  duties,  and  dangers.  He 
distinctly  teaches  that  the  sphere  of  motives  is  the  sphere  of 
morals ;  and  that  love  of  the  true,  the  beautiful  and  the  good  in 
human  action  is  a  higher  and  worthier  source  of  inspiration  than 
the  hatred  of  their  opposites.  He  thus  grounds  his  moral  teach- 
ing upon  the  spirit  of  the  Founder  of  Christianity,  and  in  the  Ode 
to  Duty  and  Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior  we  find  the  highest 
manifestation  of  it. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

1  Matthew  Arnold. 


PREFACE.  Xiii 

— '  Tis  finally,  the  man  who,  lifted  high, 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 
Or  left  unthought  of  in  obscurity, — 
Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not, 
Plays  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won. 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 
From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast ; 
Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 
Forever,  and  to  nobler  deeds  give  birth, 
Or  he  must  go  to  dust  without  his  fame, 
And  leave  a  dead,  unprofitable  name, 
Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause ; 
And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 
His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause : 
This  is  the  Happy  Warrior ;  this  is  he 
Whom  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 

Believing  that  the  poet's  function  was  to 

Help  life  onward  in  its  noblest  aim, 

he  wrote  to  Sir  George  Beaumont :  "  The  poet  is  a  teacher ;  I 
wish  to  be  considered  as  a  teacher  or  as  nothing."  But  his 
method  is  not  that  of  the  Doctrinaires  and  Examining  Boards,  for 
he  had  learned  that  the  aim  of  education  is  the  development'  of 
all  the  faculties,  —  body,  soul,  and  spirit.  He  has  severe  words 
of  condemnation  for  the  method  which  produces  that  intellectual 
monstrosity,  who 

Can  string  you  names  of  countries,  cities,  towns, 
The  whole  world  over,  tight  as  beads  of  dew 
Upon  a  gossamer  thread.        *        *        * 
*        *        *        Who  must  live, 
Knowing  that  he  grows  wiser  every  day, 
Or  else  not  live  at  all. 

For  this  unnatural  growth  the  trainer  blame, 
Pity  the  tree. 


xiv  PREFACE. 

He  offers  words  of  encouragement  to  those  of  us  who  believe 
that  we  should  teach  as  Nature  teaches,  and  that  the  original 
and  poetic  spirit  in  children  should  be  encouraged  rather  than 
crushed  out  by  cramming  them  to  the  throat  with  mere  instruc- 
tion. Grandeur  of  character  has  its  roots  in  a  freedom  to  drink 
in  other  lessons  than  those  which  may  be  recited. 

Thy  art  be  Nature,  the  live  current  quaff, 
And  let  the  groveller  sip  his  stagnant  pool, 
In  fear  that  else  when  Critics,  grave  and  cool, 
Have  killed  him,  Scorn  should  write  his  epitaph. 
******* 
How  does  the  meadow-flower  its  bloom  unfold  ? 

Because  the  lovely  little  flower  is  free 
Down  to  its  root,  and  in  that  freedom  bold ; 

And  so  the  grandeur  of  the  forest  tree 
Comes  not  by  casting  in  a  formal  mould, 

But  by  its  own  divine  vitality. 

Wordsworth  was  a  patriot  as  well  as  a  poet,  and  in  the  school 
of  citizenship,  too,  he  proves  our  wisest  teacher,  insisting  that 
good  citizenship  cannot  exist  without  true  manhood,  —  that  the 
good  citizen  is  the  good  man.  This  is  the  lesson  of  the  French 
Revolution,  and  in  this  school  Wordsworth  was  a  pupil  of  the 
first  rank.  He  was  the  first  in  England  to  honor  the  lives  of  men 
in  all  ranks,  with  the  glory  and  the  wealth  and  the  beauty  of 
song.  He  was  the  first  to  assert  the  right  of  every  man  to  the 
best  education  which  the  State  can  give,  and  to  protection  from 
that  greed  which  would  oppress  them  with  unremitting  toil.  He 
teaches  that  the  only  safety  for  a  Nation  is  in  that  spirit  of  Frater- 
nity which  binds  together  the  rich  and  the  poor ;  that  the  liberty 
and  true  greatness  of  a  nation  are  in  its  agreement  with  the 

laws  of  righteousness. 

By  the  soul 
Only  the  nations  shall  be  great  and  free ; 

not  from 

Fleets  and  armies,  and  external  wealth, 

But  from  within  proceeds  a  nation's  strength. 


PREFACE.  xv 

With  youthful  ardor  he  championed  the  cause  of  suffering 
humanity  in  France,  when  the  nation  seemed 

Standing  on  the  top  of  golden  hours. 

But  when  he  saw  the  career  of  Napoleon  begin,  and  France 
turn  oppressor,  in  wrath  and  pity  he  espoused  the  interests  of 
the  oppressed  nations.  In  a  noble  outburst  of  indignation  he 
expressed  his  hatred  of  the  cruel  attack  upon  the  liberties  of 
Switzerland,  of  St.  Domingo,  and  of  the  Venetian  Republic. 

After  the  imprisonment  of  the  patriot  Toussaint  L'Ouverture, 
he  wrote :  — 

Thou  hast  left  behind 

Powers  that  will  work  for  thee ;  air,  earth,  and  skies ; 
There's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee ;  thou  hast  great  allies ; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 

When  at  last  the  dreadful  contest  ended  and  the  tyrant  was 
overthrown  at  Waterloo,  in  humble  gratitude  he  pours  forth  his 
enthusiasm  and  his  joy  that  the  fate  of  nations  is  knit  to  the 
government  of  God. 

To  Thee,  to  Thee, 

Just  God  of  Christianised  Humanity, 
Shall  praise  be  poured  forth,  and  thanks  ascend. 
That  thou  hast  brought  our  warfare  to  an  end, 
And  that  we  need  no  second  victory ! 
#***#* 
Blest,  above  measure  blest, 
If  on  thy  love  our  Land  her  hopes  shall  rest, 
And  all  the  nations  labor  to  fulfil 
Thy  law,  and  live  henceforth  in  peace,  in  pure  good  will. 

From  his  retirement  at  Rydal  he  issued  poem  and  pamphlet  in 
which  he  discussed 

the  end 

Of  civil  government,  and  its  wisest  forms ; 


XVI 


PREFACE. 


also  education  and  the  duty  of  the  State  to  insist  upon  a  high 
standard  of  citizenship ;  the  poor  laws  ;  the  relation  of  capital  to 
labor,  and  the  rights  of  workmen  congregated  in  manufactories. 
Strange  themes  for  a  poet !  They  were  not  strange  for  a  poet 
who  had  imbibed  the  old  Teutonic  spirit  of  the  people  and  the 
people's  rights. 

We  must  be  free  or  die,  who  speak  the  tongue 
That  Shakespeare  spake,  the  faith  and  morals  hold 
Which  Milton  held. 

One  of  the  wisest  of  our  public  men  has  said :  — 

"  I  do  not  think  that  anybody  of  his  time  —  statesman,  philoso- 
pher, or  poet  —  saw  with  such  unerring  insight  into  the  great 
moral  forces  that  determine  the  currents  of  history." 1 

As  far  back  as  1820  he  foresaw  with  remarkable  penetration 
the  movement  which  we  designate  as  "  Home  Rule,"  and  in  a 
letter  to  Mrs.  Hemans  he  said :  — 

"  These  two  islands  will  reap  the  fruit  of  their  own  folly  and 
madness,  in  becoming  for  the  present  generation  the  two  most 
unquiet  and  miserable  spots  upon  the  earth." 

He  must  have  had  in  perspective  the  great  English  Liberal 
when  he  wrote  :  — 

Blest  statesman  he,  whose  mind's  unselfish  will 
Leaves  her  at  ease  among  grand  thoughts ;  whose  eye 
Sees  that  apart  from  Magnanimity 
Wisdom  exists  not 

Americans  should  claim  a  close  relationship  to  Wordsworth, 
for  he  is  spiritually  akin  to  these  patriots  who  stood  by  the  side 
of  Washington,  and  felt  his  great  arm  lean  on  them  for  support. 
His  burning  words  upon  the  fate  of  nations  which  build  upon 
other  principles  than  those  of  truth  and  justice  have  inspired 
many  of  our  noblest  statesmen. 

In   the   rustic  simplicity  and  delightful  domesticity  of  that 

1  Hon.  George  F.  Hoar. 


PREFACE.  xvii 

Grasmere  Cottage  where,  in  manly  independence,  peace,  and 
happy  poverty,  a.  practical  example  of  "  plain  living  and  high 
thinking"  was  given  to  the  world,  we  have  a  picture  not  un- 
common in  the  rural  villages  of  New  England. 

In  his  sorrow  at  the  worldliness  and  materialism  of  those  who 
live  in  luxury  and  frivolity,  he  exclaims  :  — 

Which  way  shall  I  look 
For  comfort,  being  as  I  am,  opprest, 
To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 
For  show ;  mean  handiwork  of  craftsman,  cook 
Or  groom  —  we  must  run  glittering  like  a  brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest ; 
The  richest  man  among  us  is  the  best. 
*        *        *        *        Rapine,  Avarice,  Expense. 
This  is  idolatry,  and  these  we  adore ; 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more. 

There  has  been  some  alarm  caused  by  the  attitude  of  Science 
toward  literary  studies,  and  fears  have  been  entertained  that 
Poetry  would  be  relegated  to  the  sphere  of  mere  pastime  and 
amusement,  —  a  subject  no  longer  needed  in  our  education,  the 
human  mind  having  outgrown  it.  Aware  of  the  arrogance  and 
dogmatism  with  which  Science  is  claiming  the  exclusive  right  to 
our  intellectual  estate,  aware  also  of  her  boast  that  she  has  ban- 
ished the  Muse  from  her  birthright,  we  have  no  fears  that  either 
the  claim  or  the  boast  can  be  substantiated  so  long  as  human 
tature  remains  what  it  is. 

True  it  is  Nature  hides 

Her  treasures  less  and  less.     Man  now  presides 
In  power,  where  once  he  trembled  in  his  weakness ; 
Science  advances  with  gigantic  strides  : 
But  are  we  aught  enriched  in  love  and  meekness  ? 
Can  aught  be  found  in  us  of  pure  and  wise 
More  than  in  humble  times  graced  human  story  ? 
That  makes  our  heart  more  apt  to  sympathize  ? 


xviii  PREFACE. 

The  claims  of  Science  to  "sovereign  sway  and  masterdom" 
should  be  met  in  the  spirit  of  candor  and  fair  dealing,  and  the 
claims  of  Poetry  pressed  with  earnestness. 

This  will  help  much  in  determining  the  sphere  of  each  and  to 
what  place  in  our  system  of  education  each  is  entitled.  If  the 
aim  of  education  be  a  harmonious  development  of  all  the  facul- 
ties, we  assuredly  need  other  aids  than  those  which  Science  fur- 
nishes. When  we  consider  what  treatment  Poetry  has  received 
in  the  house  of  its  friends,  and  upon  what  weak  arguments  it  has 
often  rested  its  claim,  there  can  be  no  wonder  that  it  has  received 
but  a  contemptuous  toleration. 

The  domain  of  Science  is  in  no  wise  similar  to  that  of  Poetry, 
and  the  two  ought  never  to  antagonize  one  another.  Science 
deals  with  the  forces,  e'ements,  qualities,  and  operations  of  the 
material  world  ;  it  is  mainly  the  field  of  acquirement ;  its  organ 
is  the  understanding,  and  that  alone ;  in  the  abstractions  of  the 
intellect  it  finds  its  food  and  life.  Involving  but  one  side  of  our 
complex  nature,  it  has  no  elevating  or  purifying  effect ;  it  does 
not  reach  the  sphere  of  motives. 

Poetry,  on  the  other  hand,  deals  with  the  facts  of  our  moral 
and  spiritual  life  and  develops  the  ethical  imaginative  and  emo- 
tional sides  of  our  nature :  its  truths  are  those  of  the  heart,  the 
conscience,  the  imagination,  and  those  are  quite  as  essential  as 
any  with  which  Science  has  to  deal.  Remove  duty,  love,  grati- 
tude, admiration,  reverence,  and  sympathy  from  life,  and  what  a 
blank  would  be  left !  Where  then  would  be  the  "  vision  and  fac- 
ulty divine  "  ? 

From  what  source  is  the  heart  to  receive  its  warmth,  the  soul 
its  inspiration,  and  life  its  beauty,  if  Science  is  to  have  supreme 
control  of  our  mental  furnishing?  We  certainly  are  in  as  great 
need,  at  the  present  time,  of  high  moral  character  as  of  enlight- 
ened understanding.  "  A  nation  which  exhausts  all  its  power  in 
developing  steam  engines  and  mill  privileges  will,  in  the  end, 
learn  that  soul  power  is  greater  than  steam  power." 


PREFACE.  xix 

We  live  by  admiration,  hope  and  love, 
And  even  as  these  are  well  and  wisely  fixed 
In  dignity  of  being  we  ascend. 

While  Science  is  developing  the  perfect  machine  and  pushing 
the  division  of  labor  to  the  extreme,  literature  must  look  to  it 
that  this  movement  which  is  "scientific  in  method,  rationalistic 
in  spirit,  and  utilitarian  in  purpose,"  shall  not  result  in  making 
man  "  a  tool  or  implement." 

An  eminent  French  critic  has  said  that,  owing  to  the  special- 
izing tendency  and  the  all-devouring  force  of  Science,  poetry 
would  cease  to  be  read  in  fifty  years.  After  the  severity  with 
which  Science  was  for  so  long  time  treated  by  Literature,  there  is 
no  wonder  that  now,  in  the  moment  of  her  mighty  exaltation, 
she  should  retaliate. 

Of  the  relative  claims  of  Science  and  Literature,  the  great 
Dr.  Arnold  said  :  "  If  one  might  wish  for  impossibilities,  I  might 
then  wish  that  my  children  might  be  well  versed  in  physical  sci- 
ence, but  in  due  subordination  to  the  fulness  and  freshness  of 
their  knowledge  on  moral  subjects."1 

In  order  that  we  may  lay  a  deep  and  sure  foundation  for  char- 
acter, we  must  insist  that  poetry  be  used  for  its  power  to  elevate 
and  refine :  we  must  not  divert  it  to  the  use  of  teaching  logic, 
rhetoric,  and  the  rules  of  poetic  architecture ;  if  we  do,  we  must 
not  complain  that  we  "  dwindle  as  we  pore."  Let  the  scientist 
dive  into  the  earth,  and  the  philosopher  soar  into  the  sky ;  but 
let  us  keep  our  feet  upon  the  sure  facts  of  experience, 

True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home. 

That  poetry  will  assist  us  even  though  we  be  scientists,  we  can- 
not doubt  when  we  view  the  lives  of  such  men  as  Newton,  Kep- 
ler, and  Agassiz  —  men  who  considered  every  new  insight  into 
Nature  as  bringing  them  so  much  nearer  the  mind  of  God.  They 

1  Stanley's  Life  of  Arnold. 


XX 


PREFACE. 


recognized  a  logic  of  the  heart  no  less  than  of  the  head,  and  that 
it  gave  them  truths  that  wake 

to  perish  never ; 

Which  neither  listlessness  nor  mad  endeavor, 
Nor  man,  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy. 

Thus  we  see  that,  instead  of  being  antagonistic,  Science  and 
Poetry  may  be  mutually  helpful.  Every  new  field  won  for  Science 
may  be  entered  and  possessed  by  Poetry,  and  until  the  dull  eye 
of  the  scientist  is  lighted  up  and  his  cold  heart  warmed  by  the 
vivifying  influence  of  imagination, 

A  primrose  by  the  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  is  to  him, 
And  it  is  nothing  more. 

Mr.  Ruskin  has  told  us  that  the  difference  between  a  tyro  and 
a  master  is,  that  the  one  stops  in  details  while  the  other  refers  all 
the  details  to  a  final  purpose, 

By  which  sense  is  made 
Subservient  still  to  moral  purposes 
Auxiliar  to  divine. 

So  long  as  we  view  all  objects  "in  disconnection  dull  and  spir- 
itless," we  are  dealing  with  nature  as  a  mere  grammarian  deals 
with  a  poem,  and  are  waging 

An  impious  warfare  with  the  very  life 
Of  our  own  souls. 

We  believe  that  there  is  no  poet  who  will,  if  rightly  used,  do  so 
much  toward  counteracting  the  utilitarian  theories  of  our  time, 
and  to  bring  poetry  and  science  into  harmony,  as  will  Words- 
worth. Although  living  in  a  pre-scientific  age  he  had  clear  views 
upon  the  tendency  of  exclusively  scientific  studies,  and  he  sought 
to  counteract  it  by  teaching  us  not  to  centre  our  life  upon  the 


PREFACE.  xxi 

petty  and  the  transient,  but  to  rise  to  the  higher  fields  beyond 
the  realm  of  sense  to  the  realm  of  spirit,  where  there  are  facts  to 
be  gained  and  relations  to  be  adjusted,  as  truly  as  in  the  physi- 
cal world,  and  where  the  consequences  of  neglect  are  more  fatal. 
He  looks  upon  both  sides  of  the  shield. 

When  soothing  darkness  spreads 

O'er  hill  and  vale        *        *        * 

*  *        *        And  the  punctual  stars 
Glitter,  undisturbing,  undisturbed; 
****** 
Then  in  full  many  a  region,  once  like  this, 
The  assured  domain  of  calm  simplicity 
And  pensive  quiet,  an  unnatural  light 

Breaks  forth  from  a  many  windowed  fabric  huge ; 
And  at  the  appointed  hour  a  bell  is  heard, 
A  local  summons  to  unceasing  toil ! 

#  #        *        Men,  maidens,  youths, 
Mother  and  little  children,  boys  and  girls, 
Enter,  and  each  the  wonted  task  resumes 
Within  this  temple  where  is  offered  up 
To  Gain,  the  master  idol  of  the  realm, 
Perpetual  sacrifice. 

He  does  not  hate  Science  because  some  of  its  votaries  see 
nothing  beyond  it,   nor  decry  it  because   of  the   many  abuses 
attendant  upon  its  practical  application. 
Yet  do  I  exult 

Casting  reserve  away,  exult  to  see 
An  intellectual  mastery  exercised 
O'er  the  blind  elements ;  a  purpose  given, 
A  perseverance  fed ;  almost  a  soul 
Imparted  —  to  brute  matter. 

In  his  Principles  of  Poetry  he  says:  "If  the  time  shall  ever 
come  when  what  is  now  called  science  shall  be  ready  to  put  on, 
as  it  were,  the  form  of  flesh  and  blood,  the  poet  will  lend  his 
divine  spirit  to  aid  in  the  transformation,  and  will  welcome  the 
being  thus  produced  as  a  dear  and  genuine  inmate  of  the  house- 
hold of  man." 


PREFACE. 

That  Wordsworth's  poetry  will  purify,  dignify,  and  inspire 
human  life  we  have  the  testimony  of  a  Positivist,  John  Stuart 
Mill.  When  in  a  great  mental  crisis,  after  seeing  all  his  schemes 
for  social  renovation  fail,  and  when  he  was  being  driven  to  the 
verge  of  fatalism  and  despondency,  he  was  led  to  the  study  of 
Wordsworth,  and  he  says :  "  What  made  Wordsworth's  poems 
a  medicine  for  my  state  of  mind  was  that  they  seemed  to  be  the 
very  culture  of  the  feelings  which  I  was  in  quest  of.  In  them  I 
seemed  to  draw  from  a  source  of  inward  joy,  of  sympathetic  and 
imaginative  pleasure  which  could  be  shared  by  all  human  beings, 
and  I  felt  myself  at  once  better  and  happier  as  I  came  under 
their  influence." l 

The  growth  of  a  poet's  mind,  as  seen  in  the  Prelude,  develop- 
ing itself  serene  and  lofty  amid  the  quiet  and  sublime  influences 
of  Nature,  or  bewildered  amid  those  convulsions  attendant  upon 
the  French  Revolution,  affords  us  the  key  to  all  of  his  later  work. 
This  poem  was  not  published  until  the  year  after  the  author's 
death,  and  consequently  is  less  known,  even  to  students  of 
Wordsworth,  than  almost  any  other  of  his  works. 

Professor  Knight  has  pronounced  it  the  greatest  poem  of  its 
kind  ever  contributed  to  literature.  Mr.  Myers  has  said  that 
there  is  hardly  any  biography  which  can  be  read  with  such  im- 
plicit confidence.  The  Rev.  Frederick  Robertson  said  of  it : 
"The  diction  is  always  pure  and  clear,  like  an  atmosphere  of 
crystal  pellucidness,  through  which  you  can  see  all  objects  with- 
out being  diverted  aside  to  consider  the  medium  through  which 
they  are  seen."  Mrs.  Oliphant  says:  "The  value  of  the  poem 
as  a  picture  of  the  mental  history  of  the  period  can  scarcely  be 
over-estimated.  It  is  full  of  the  freshness  of  the  mountains  and 
the  thrill  of  simple  life  and  nature."  In  Professor  Shairp's  most 
admirable  lectures  upon  the  Poetic  Interpretation  of  Nature  we 
find  the  following :  "  There  were  many  who  knew  Wordsworth's 
poetry  well  while  he  was  still  alive,  who  felt  its  power,  and  the 

1  Autobiography. 


PREFACE.  xxiil 

new  light  it  threw  upon  the  material  world.  But  though  they 
half  guessed,  they  did  not  know  the  secret  of  it.  They  got 
glimpses  of  part,  but  could  not  grasp  the  philosophy  on  which  it 
was  based.  But  when,  after  his  death,  the  Prelude  was  pub- 
lished, they  were  let  into  the  secret;  they  saw  the  hidden  founda- 
tions on  which  it  rests  as  they  had  never  seen  them  before.  The 
smaller  poems  were  more  beautiful,  more  delightful,  but  the 
Prelude  revealed  the  secret  of  their  beauty.  It  showed  that  all 
Wordsworth's  impassioned  feeling  toward  Nature  was  no  mere 
fantastic  dream,  but  based  on  sanity,  on  a  most  assured  and 
reasonable  philosophy.  It  was  as  though  one  who  had  been 
long  gazing  on  some  building  grand  and  fair,  admiring  the  vast 
sweep  of  its  walls  and  the  strength  of  its  battlements,  without 
understanding  their  principle  of  coherence,  were  at  length  to  be 
admitted  inside -by  the  master-builder,  and  given  a  view  of  the 
whole  plan  from  within,  the  principles  of  architecture,  and  the 
hidden  substructures  upon  which  it  was  built.  This  is  what 
the  Prelude  does  for  the  rest  of  Wordsworth's  poetry." 

In  every  man  whose  life  is  life  in  any  true  sense  of  the  word 
there  are  some  central  principles  which  move  and  control  the 
rest,  and  if  we  are  to  come  into  a  living  relation  with  his  individ- 
uality we  must  ascertain  what  these  principles  are.  In  such  a 
study  we  pass  through  the  creation  to  the  mind  of  the  creator. 

No  finer  estimate  of  Wordsworth  has  ever  been  given  than 
that  of  Coleridge  in  his  Biographia  Literaria,  the  chief  points 
of  which  are:  "First,  an  austere  purity  of  language,  a  perfect 
appropriateness  of  the  words  to  the  meaning.  .  .  .  Second. 
a  corresponding  weight  and  sanity  of  the  thoughts  and  senti- 
ments, won  not  from  books,  but  from  the  poet's  own  meditative 
observation.  .  .  .  They  are  fresh  and  have  the  dew  upon 
them.  .  .  .  Third,  the  sinewy  strength  and  originality  of 
single  lines  and  paragraphs.  .  .  .  Fourth,  the  perfect  truth  of 
nature  in  his  images  and  descriptions.  Fifth,  a  meditative  pathos, 
a  union  of  deep  and  subtle  thought  with  sensibility,  a  sympathy 
with  man  as  man.  .  .  .In  this  mild  and  philosophic  pathos 


xxiv  PREFACE. 

Wordsworth  appears  to  me  without  a  compeer.  .  .  .  Last, 
and  pre-eminently,  I  challenge  for  this  poet  the  gift  of  imag- 
ination in  the  highest  and  strictest  sense  of  the  word.  .  .  . 
In  imaginative  power  he  stands  nearest  of  all  modern  writers  to 
Shakespeare  and  Milton ;  and  yet  in  a  kind  perfectly  unborrowed 
and  his  own."  Dr.  Moir,  the  Scottish  author  and  critic,  says : 
"Never,  perhaps,  in  the  whole  range  of  literary  history,  from 
Homer  downwards,  did  any  individual,  throughout  the  course  of 
a  long  life,  dedicate  himself  to  poetry  with  a  devotion  so  pure,  so 
perfect,  and  so  uninterrupted  as  he  did.  It  was  not  his  amuse- 
ment, his  recreation,  his  mere  pleasure.  It  was  the  main,  the 
serious,  the  solemn  business  of  his  being.  It  was  his  morning, 
noon,  and  evening  thought,  the  object  of  his  out-door  rambles, 
the  subject  of  his  in-door  reflections ;  and,  as  an  art,  he  studied 
it  as  severely  as  ever  Canova  did  sculpture,  or  Michael  Angelo 
painting." * 

The  inscription  upon  the  memorial  in  Grasmere  church  is  sc 
just  and  so  comprehensive  that  I  give  it  entire. 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

A  TRUE   PHILOSOPHER   AND   POET, 

WHO  BY  THE  SPECIAL  GIFT  AND  CALLING  OF 

ALMIGHTY  GOD, 

WHETHER  HE  DISCOURSED  ON  MAN  OR  NATURE, 
FAILED  NOT  TO  LIFT  UP  THE  HEART 

To  HOLY  THINGS, 
TIRED  NOT  OF  MAINTAINING  THE  CAUSE 

OF  THE  POOR  AND  SIMPLE: 
AND  so  IN  PERILOUS  TIMES  WAS  RAISED  UP 

To  BE  A  CHIEF  MINISTER 

NOT  ONLY  OF  NOBLEST  POESY, 

BUT  OF  HIGH  AND  SACRED  TRUTH. 

THIS  MEMORIAL 
Is  PLACED  HERE  BY  His  FRIENDS  AND  NEIGHBORS 

IN  TESTIMONY  OF 

RESPECT,  AFFECTION,  AND  GRATITUDE. 
ANNO  1851. 

1  The  Poetical  Literature  of  the  Last  Half-Century. 


PREFACE.  xxv 

Wordsworth's  poems  are  so  intimately  connected  with  the 
Lake  country  that  they  are  the  only  guide  needed  to  that  ground 
which  he  has  rendered  classic.  Most  of  his  verses  were  mur- 
mured in  the  open  air,  while  he  sat  upon  the  mountain  side  and 

beheld  the  Sun 
Rise  up  and  bathe  the  world  in  light ; 

or  as  he  followed  the  path  of  the  brook  hurrying  to  its  resting- 
place  in  the  bosom  of  the  lake ;  or,  in  company  with  some  loved 
friend,  paced  the  terraced  walk  at  Rydal,  as  the  sun  was  sinking 
behind  Loughrigg,  and  the  clouds  of  evening  began  to  gather 
upon  the  breast  of  Wansfell. 

The  Prelude  was  mostly  composed  at  Under  Lancrigg,  a 
terrace  on  the  side  of  Helm  Crag,  overlooking  Grasmere  Vale. 
As  he  walked  to  and  fro  repeating  the  verses,  they  were  taken 
down  by  his  sympathetic  scribes,  —  his  wife  and  sister. 

The  Prelude  is  connected  with  all  that  is  greatest  in  the 
poetical  achievement  of  Wordsworth ;  with  all  that  makes  for 
his  immortality  as  a  poet.  For  more  than  forty  years  it  was 
suppressed,  and  there  is  no  doubt  but  that  he  intended  it  should 
remain  so  for  all  time.  How  can  this  fact  be  reconciled  with 
much  of  the  current  criticism  which  declares  that  he  was  over- 
anxious for  fame?  In  the  interval  between  1799  and  1806,  when 
the  yoke  of  the  Prelude  rested  heavily  upon  him,  and  he  was 
weary  of  tracing 

"  Home  to  its  cloud  the  lightning  of  his  mind," 

he  found  rest  and  recreation  in  those  divine  poems,  The  Brothers, 
Tintern  Abbey,  the  Platonic  Ode,  and  those  shorter  gems  of  song 
which  reveal  his  genius  at  its  loftiest  pitch  of  energy,  —  poems 
all  the  sweeter,  perhaps,  because  the  time  devoted  to  them  was 
stolen  from  the  Prelude.  "In  writing  them  he  was  like  an  Eton 
boy  out  of  bounds ;  he  was  a  truant  from  the  Prelude ;  he  was 
shirking  school ;  he  was  dodging  his  tutor."  1  At  a  time  when 

1  Sir  Francis  Doyle  in  Oxford  Lectures. 


xxvi  PREFACE. 

he  had  passed  on  to  the  enjoyment  of  other  sights  and  sounds, 
other  beauties  and  melodies  than  those  of  earth,  his  disciples 
rescued  the  work  from  oblivion,  and  by  so  doing  revealed  to  us 
all  the  stormy  hopes,  all  the  struggling  energies,  all  the  solemn 
deliberations,  and  all  the  tumultuous  yearnings  of  his  lofty, 
capacious,  and  impassioned  soul. 

We  readily  admit  the  existence  of  lines  which  are  faulty  in 
execution  and  obscure  in  meaning,  but  it  must  be  remembered 
that  the  work  was  left  in  the  rough  and  never  received  the  final 
touches  which  a  revision  for  publication  would  have  given  it. 
Had  it  been  given  to  the  world  in  the  poet's  time  he  would,  no 
doubt,  have  pruned  it  and  improved  it  in  many  respects.  The 
pure,  transparent,  and  beautiful  English ;  the  grace  and  melody 
of  versification  ;  the  sinewy  strength  of  single  lines ;  the  treasures 
of  imagination  and  the  general  poetic  power  displayed ;  the  min- 
gling of  genius  and  common  sense ;  the  spirit  of  candor  and 
conscientiousness  which  pervades  the  whole,  —  these  stamp  it  as 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  poetic  productions  in  the  language, 
and  constitute  it  one  of  the  brightest  flowers  in  his  unfading 
coronal. 

"  It  appears  to  me  that  the  memorials  of  a  great  soul  have  at 
least  as  much  claim  upon  our  indulgence  as  The  Memorials  of 
a  Quiet  Life,  in  two  volumes  of  somewhat  humdrum  prose."  a 

In  the  notes  I  have  endeavored  to  furnish  such  assistance  —  his- 
torical, geographical,  and  explanatory — as  the  reader  would  not 
be  likely  to  get  elsewhere.  The  localities  have  been  carefully 
studied  in*  the  light  of  the  poem  itself,  and  with  the  assistance 
of  those  local  historians — the  dalesmen. 

It  is  well  known  to  what  extent  and  with  what  success  the  late 
Professor  Hudson  made  use  of  Wordsworth  in  his  classes,  and 
that  he  contemplated  doing  for  Wordsworth  what  he  had  done 
for  Shakespeare.  Although  aware  of  how  far  this  work  falls 
short  of  what  his  mature  judgment  and  ripe  scholarship  would 
have  produced,  I  nevertheless  hope  that  it  may  prove  a  help  to 

1  Sir  Francis  Doyle  in  Oxford  Lectures. 


PREFACE.  xxvii 

those  who  are  desirous  of  understanding  the  mind  of  the  great 
poet. 

Grateful  acknowledgments  are  here  tendered  to  Hon.  George 
F.  Hoar,  for  permission  to  quote  from  a  letter  of  his  to  the  late 
Dr.  Hudson;  to  the  Rev.  H.  D.  Rawnsley,  Crosthwaite,  Kes- 
wick,  for  his  Sonnets  at  the  English  Lakes,  one  of  which  I  have 
quoted  entire ;  to  Mr.  R.  Mitchell,  Jr.,  Wordsworth's  House, 
Cockermouth,  for  assistance  in  studying  the  poet's  birthplace  ;  to 
Professor  William  Knight,  of  the  University  of  St.  Andrews,  for 
the  privilege  of  using  material  from  his  edition  of  Wordsworth's 
poems ;  and  also  to  Mrs.  William  Wordsworth,  of  the  Stepping 
Stones,  Ambleside,  for  her  interest  in  the  work  and  her  efforts 
to  render  the  editor's  visits  to  the  homes  and  haunts  of  the  poet 
both  pleasant  and  profitable.  Whoever  writes  upon  the  genius 
of  Wordsworth  must,  almost  of  necessity,  be  under  obligation 
to  previous  writers.  I  am  especially  indebted  to  the  works  of 
Professor  Shairp  and  the  Rev.  Stopford  Brooke  ;  these  were  my 
earliest  and  most  helpful  guides  in  the  study  of  that  poet 

"  of  the  cloud,  the  cataract,  the  lake, 
Who  on  Helvellyn's  summit  wide  awake, 

Catches  his  freshness  from  Archangels'  wing. 

He  of  the  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring, 
The  social  smile,  the  chain  for  freedom's  sake." 

The  Prelude  will  be  followed  by  the  publication  of  other  of 
Wordsworth's  poems. 

A.  J.  G. 

BROOKLINE,  MASS.,  November,  1887. 


CONTENTS. 


COLERIDGE'S  POEM ix 

ADVERTISEMENT  TO  THE  PRELUDE       ....  i 

BOOK  FIRST.    Introduction.  —  Childhood  and  School-Time,  3 

BOOK  SECOND.  School  Time  (continued)  ...  25 
BOOK  THIRD.  Residence  at  Cambridge  .  .  .  .41 

BOOK  FOURTH.     Summer  Vacation       ....  63 

BOOK  FIFTH.     Books 79 

BOOK  SIXTH.  Cambridge  and  the  Alps  .  .  .  100 
BOOK  SEVENTH.  Residence  in  London  .  .  .  .127 
BOOK  EIGHTH.  Retrospect.  —  Love  of  Nature  leading  to 

Love  of  Man 153 

BOOK  NINTH.     Residence  in  France     .        .        .        .  177 

BOOK  TENTH.     Residence  in  France  (continued)       .         .  197 

BOOK  ELEVENTH.  Residence  in  France  (concluded)  .  218 
BOOK  TWELFTH.  Imagination  and  Taste,  How  Impaired 

and  Restored •  234 

BOOK  THIRTEENTH.    Imagination  and    Taste,  How   Im- 
paired and  Restored  (continued)    ....  246 

BOOK  FOURTEENTH.    Conclusion 259 

CHRONOLOGICAL  AND  ITINERARY 275 

NOTES 277 


[The  following  lines  were  composed  by  Coleridge  after  listening  to 
the  recitation  of  the  Prelude  by  its  author  at  Coleorton,  Leicestershire, 
where  the  Wordsworths  were  living  in  the  winter  of  1806.] 


TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


FRIEND  of  the  wise  !  and  teacher  of  the  good  ! 
Into  my  heart  have  I  received  that  lay 
More  than  historic,  that  prophetic  lay 
Wherein  (high  theme  by  thee  first  sung  aright) 
Of  the  foundations  and  the  building  up 
Of  a  Human  Spirit  thou  hast  dared  to  tell 
What  may  be  told,  to  the  understanding  mind 
Revealable  ;  and  what  within  the  mind 
By  vital  breathings  secret  as  the  soul 
Of  vernal  growth,  oft  quickens  in  the  heart 
Thoughts  all  too  deep  for  words  !  — 

Theme  hard  as  high, 

Of  smiles  spontaneous,  and  mysterious  fears 
(The  first-born  they  of  Reason  and  twin  birth), 
Of  tides  obedient  to  external  force, 
And  currents  self-determined,  as  might  seem, 
Or  by  some  inner  power  :  of  moments  awful, 
Now  in  thy  inner  life,  and  now  abroad, 
When  power  streamed  from  thee,  and  thy  soul  received 
The  Light  reflected,  as  a  light  bestowed  — 
Of  fancies  fair,  and  milder  hours  of  youth, 
Hyblean  murmurs  of  poetic  thought 


XXX  COLERIDGE'S  POEM. 

Industrious  in  its  joy,  in  vales  and  glens, 
Native  or  outland,  lakes  and  famous  hills  ! 
Or  on  the  lonely  high-road,  when  the  stars 
Were  rising ;  or  by  secret  mountain-streams, 
The  guides  and  the  companions  of  thy  way  ! 
Of  more  than  Fancy,  of  the  Social  Sense 
Distending  wide,  and  man  beloved  as  man, 
Where  France  in  all  her  towns  lay  vibrating 
Like  some  becalmed  bark  beneath  the  burst 
Of  Heaven's  immediate  thunder,  when  no  cloud 
Is  visible,  or  shadow  on  the  main. 
For  thou  wert  there,  thine  own  brows  garlanded, 
Amid  the  tremor  of  a  realm  aglow, 
Amid  a  mighty  nation  jubilant, 
When  from  the  general  heart  of  humankind 
Hope  sprang  forth  like  a  full-born  Deity  ! 
—  Of  that  dear  Hope  afflicted  and  struck  down, 
So  summoned  homeward,  thenceforth  calm  and  sure, 
From  the  dread  watch-tower  of  man's  absolute  self, 
With  light  unwaning  on  her  eyes,  to  look 
Far  on — herself  a  glory  to  behold. 
The  Angel  of  the  vision  !     Then  (last  strain) 
Of  Duty,  chosen  laws  controlling  choice, 
Action  and  joy  !  —  An  Orphic  song  indeed, 
A  song  divine  of  high  and  passionate  thoughts 
To  their  own  music  chanted  ! 

O  great  Bard  ! 

Ere  yet  that  last  strain  dying  awed  the  air, 
With  steadfast  eye  I  viewed  thee  in  the  choir 
Of  ever-enduring  men.     The  truly  great 
Have  all  one  age,  and  from  one  visible  space 


COLERIDGE'S  POEM.  xxxi 

Shed  influence  !     They,  both  in  power  and  act, 
Are  permanent,  and  Time  is  not  with  them, 
Save  as  it  worketh  for  them,  they  in  it. 
Nor  less  a  sacred  roll,  than  those  of  old, 
And  to  be  placed,  as  they,  with  gradual  fame 
Among  the  archives  of  mankind,  thy  work 
Makes  audible  a  linked  lay  of  Truth, 
Of  Truth  profound  a  sweet  continuous  lay, 
Not  learnt,  but  native,  her  own  natural  notes  ! 
Ah  !  as  I  listened  with  a  heart  forlorn, 
The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew  : 
And  even  as  life  returns  upon  the  drowned, 
Life's  joy  rekindling  roused  a  throng  of  pains  — 
Keen  pangs  of  Love,  awakening  as  a  babe 
Turbulent,  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart ; 
And  fears  self-willed,  that  shunned  the  eye  of  hope ; 
And  hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself  from  fear ; 
Sense  of  past  youth,  and  manhood  come  in  vain, 
And  genius  given,  and  knowledge  won  in  vain ; 
And  all  which  I  had  culled  in  wood-walks  wild, 
And  all  which  patient  toil  had  reared,  and  all, 
Commune  with  thee  had  opened  out  —  but  flowers 
Strewed  on  my  corse,  and  borne  upon  my  bier, 
In  the  same  coffin,  for  the  self-same  grave  ! 

Eve  following  eve, 

Dear  tranquil  time,  when  the  sweet  sense  of  Home 
Is  sweetest !  moments  for  their  own  sake  hailed, 
And  more  desired,  more  precious  fof  thy  song, 
In  silence  listening,  like  a  devout  child, 
My  soul  lay  passive,  by  thy  various  strain 
Driven  as  in  surges  now  beneath  the  stars, 


xxxii  COLERIDGE'S  POEM. 

With  momentary  stars  of  my  own  birth, 

Fair  constellated  foam,  still  darting  off 

Into  the  darkness ;  now  a  tranquil  sea, 

Outspread  and  bright,  yet  swelling  to  the  moon. 

And  when  !  O  Friend  !  my  comforter  and  guide  ! 

Strong  in  thyself  and  powerful  to  give  strength  !  — 

Thy  long-sustained  Song  finally  closed, 

And  thy  deep  voice  had  ceased  —  yet  thou  thyself 

Wert  still  before  my  eyes,  and  round  us  both 

That  happy  vision  of  beloved  faces  — 

Scarce  conscious,  and  yet  conscious  of  its  close 

I  sate,  my  being  blended  in  one  thought 

(Thought  was  it  ?  or  aspiration  ?  or  resolve  ?) 

Absorbed,  yet  hanging  still  upon  the  sound  — 

And  when  I  rose  I  found  myself  in  prayer. 


THE   PRELUDE, 

OR    GROWTH    OF   A    POET'S    MIND; 

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEM. 

AD  VERTISEMENT. 

THE  following  Poem  was  commenced  in  the  beginning  of  the 
year  1799,  and  completed  in  the  summer  of  1805. 

The  design  and  occasion  of  the  work  are  described  by  the 
Author  in  his  Preface  to  the  EXCURSION,  first  published  in  1814, 
where  he  thus  speaks  :  — 

"  Several  years  ago,  when  the  Author  retired  to  his  native 
mountains  with  the  hope  of  being  enabled  to  construct  a  literary 
work  that  might  live,  it  was  a  reasonable  thing  that  he  should 
take  a  review  of  his  own  mind,  and  examine  how  far  Nature  and 
Education  had  qualified  him  for  such  an  employment. 

"As  subsidiary  to  this  preparation,  he  undertook  to  record,  in 
verse,  the  origin  and  progress  of  his  own  powers,  as  far  as  he 
was  acquainted  with  them. 

"  That  work,  addressed  to  a  dear  friend,  most  distinguished 
for  his  knowledge  and  genius,  and  to  whom  the  Author's  intel- 
lect is  deeply  indebted,  has  been  long  finished,  and  the  result  of 
the  investigation  which  gave  rise  to  it,  was  a  determination  to 
compose  a  philosophical  Poem,  containing  views  of  Man,  Na- 
ture, and  Society,  and  to  be  entitled  the  'Recluse';  as  having 
for  its  principal  subject  the  sensations  and  opinions  of  a  poet 
living  in  retirement. 


2  THE  PRELUDE, 

"The  preparatory  Poem  is  biographical,  and  conducts  the 
history  of  the  Author's  mind  to  the  point  when  he  was  embold- 
ened to  hope  that  his  faculties  were  sufficiently  matured  for 
entering  upon  the  arduous  labor  which  he  had  proposed  to  him- 
self; and  the  two  works  have  the  same  kind  of  relation  to  each 
other,  if  he  may  so  express  himself,  as  the  Ante-chapel  has  to 
the  body  of  a  Gothic  church.  Continuing  this  allusion,  he  may 
be  permitted  to  add,  that  his  minor  pieces,  which  have  been 
long  before  the  public,  when  they  shall  be  properly  arranged, 
will  be  found  by  the  attentive  reader  to  have  such  connection 
with  the  main  work  as  may  give  them  claim  to  be  likened  to  the 
little  cells,  oratories,  and  sepulchral  recesses,  ordinarily  included 
in  those  edifices." 

Such  was  the  Author's  language  in  the  year  1814. 

It  will  thence  be  seen,  that  the  present  Poem  was  intended  to 
be  introductory  to  the  RECLUSE,  and  that  the  RECLUSE,  if  com- 
pleted, would  have  consisted  of  Three  Parts.  Of  these,  the 
Second  Part  alone,  viz.,  the  EXCURSION,  was  finished,  and  given 
to  the  world  by  the  Author. 

The  First  Book  of  the  First  Part  of  the  RECLUSE  still  remains 
in  manuscript,  but  the  Third  Part  was  only  planned.  The  mate- 
rials of  which  it  would  have  been  formed  have,  however,  been 
incorporated,  for  the  most  part,  in  the  Author's  other  Publica- 
tions, written  subsequently  to  the  EXCURSION. 

The  Friend,  to  whom  the  present  Poem  is  addressed,  was  the 
late  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE,  who  was  resident  in  Malta, 
for  the  restoration  of  his  health,  when  the  greater  part  of  it  was 
composed. 

RYDAL  MOUNT,  July  13, 1850. 


BOOK   FIRST. 


INTRODUCTION.  — CHILDHOOD  AND   SCHOOL-TIME. 

0  THERE  is  blessing  in  this  gentle  breeze, 
A  visitant  that  while  it  fans  my  cheek 

Doth  seem  half-conscious  of  the  joy  it  brings 

From  the  green  fields,  and  from  yon  azure  sky, 

Whate'er  its  mission,  the  soft  breeze  can  come 

To  none  more  grateful  than  to  me ;  escaped 

From  the  vast  city,  where  I  long  had  pined 

A  discontented  sojourner ;  now  free, 

Free  as  a  bird  to  settle  where  I  will. 

What  dwelling  shall  receive  me  ?  in  what  vale  10 

Shall  be  my  harbor?  underneath  what  grove 

Shall  I  take  up  my  home  ?  and  what  clear  stream 

Shall  with  its  murmur  lull  me  into  rest  ? 

The  earth  is  all  before  me.     With  a  heart 

Joyous,  nor  scared  at  its  own  liberty, 

1  look  about ;  and  should  the  chosen  guide 
Be  nothing  better  than  a  wandering  cloud, 
I  cannot  miss  my  way.     I  breathe  again  ! 
Trances  of  thought  and  mountings  of  the  mind 
Come  fast  upon  me  :  it  is  shaken  off,  20 
That  burthen  of  my  own  unnatural  self, 


THE  PRELUDE. 

The  heavy  weight  of  many  a  weary  day 

Not  mine,  and  such  as  were  not  made  for  me. 

Long  months  of  peace  (if  such  bold  word  accord 

With  any  promises  of  human  life), 

Long  months  of  ease  and  undisturbed  delight 

Are  mine  in  prospect ;  whither  shall  I  turn, 

By  road  or  pathway,  or  through  trackless  field, 

Up  hill  or  down,  or  shall  some  floating  thing 

Upon  the  river  point  me  out  my  course  ?  30 

Dear  Liberty  !     Yet  what  would  it  avail 
But  for  a  gift  that  consecrates  the  joy? 
For  I,  methought,  while  the  sweet  breath  of  heaven 
Was  blowing  on  my  body,  felt  within 
A  correspondent  breeze,  that  gently  moved 
With  quickening  virtue,  but  is  now  become 
A  tempest,  a  redundant  energy, 
Vexing  its  own  creation.     Thanks  to  both, 
And  their  congenial  powers,  that,  while  they  join 
In  breaking  up  a  long-continued  frost,  40 

Bring  with  them  vernal  promises,  the  hope 
Of  active  days  urged  on  by  flying  hours,  — 
Days  of  sweet  leisure,  taxed  with  patient  thought    . 
Abstruse,  nor  wanting  punctual  service  high, 
Matins  and  vespers  of  harmonious  verse  ! 

Thus  far,  O  Friend  !  did  I,  not  used  to  make 
A  present  joy  the  matter  of  a  song, 
Pour  forth  that  day  my  soul  in  measured  strains 
That  would  not  be  forgotten,  and  are  here 
Recorded ;  to  the  open  fields  I  told  50 


BOOK  FIRST.  5 

A  prophecy  :  poetic  numbers  came 

Spontaneously  to  clothe  in  priestly  robe 

•A  renovated  spirit  singled  out, 

Such  hope  was  mine,  for  holy  services. 

My  own  voice  cheered  me,  and,  far  more,  the  mind's 

Internal  echo  of  the  imperfect  sound  ; 

To  both  I  listened,  drawing  from  them  both 

A  cheerful  confidence  in  things  to  come. 

Content  and  not  unwilling  now  to  give 
A  respite  to  this  passion,  I  paced  on  60 

With  brisk  and  eager  steps ;  and  came,  at  length, 
To  a  green  shady  place,  where  down  I  sate 
Beneath  a  tree,  slackening  my  thoughts  by  choice, 
And  settling  into  gentler  happiness. 
'Twas  autumn,  and  a  clear  and  placid  day, 
With  warmth,  as  much  as  needed,  from  a  sun 
Two  hours  declined  towards  the  west ;  a  day 
With  silver  clouds,  and  sunshine  on  the  grass, 
And  in  the  sheltered  and  the  sheltering  grove 
A  perfect  stillness.     Many  were  the  thoughts  70 

Encouraged  and  dismissed,  till  choice  was  made 
Of  a  known  Vale,  whither  my  feet  should  turn, 
Nor  rest  till  they  had  reached  the  very  door 
Of  the  one  cottage  which  methought  I  saw. 
No  picture  of  mere  memory  ever  looked 
So  fair ;  and  while  upon  the  fancied  scene 
I  gazed  with  growing  love,  a  higher  power 
Than  Fancy  gave  assurance  of  some  work 
Of  glory  there  forthwith  to  be  begun, 
Perhaps  too  there  performed.     Thus  long  I  mused,     80 


THE  PRELUDE. 

Nor  e'er  lost  sight  of  what  I  mused  upon, 

Save  when,  amid  the  stately  grove  of  oaks, 

Now  here,  now  there,  an  acorn,  from  its  cup 

Dislodged,  through  sere  leaves  rustled,  or  at  once 

To  the  bare  earth  dropped  with  a  startling  sound. 

From  that  soft  couch  I  rose  not,  till  the  sun 

Had  almost  touched  the  horizon ;  casting  then 

A  backward  glance  upon  the  curling  cloud 

Of  city  smoke,  by  distance  ruralized ; 

Keen  as  a  Truant  or  a  Fugitive,  90 

But  as  a  Pilgrim  resolute,  I  took, 

Even  with  the  chance  equipment  of  that  hour, 

The  road  that  pointed  toward  the  chosen  Vale. 

It  was  a  splendid  evening,  and  my  soul 

Once  more  made  trial  of  her  strength,  nor  lacked 

yEolian  visitations  j  but  the  harp 

Was  soon  defrauded,  and  the  banded  host 

Of  harmony  dispersed  in  straggling  sounds 

And  lastly  utter  silence  !     "  Be  it  so ; 

Why  think  of  anything  but  present  good  ?  "  too 

So,  like  a  home-bound  laborer  I  pursued 

My  way  beneath  the  mellowing  sun,  that  shed 

Mild  influence ;  nor  left  in  me  one  wish 

Again  to  bend  the  Sabbath  of  that  time 

To  a  servile  yoke.     What  need  of  many  words  ? 

A  pleasant  loitering  journey,  through  three  days 

Continued,  brought  me  to  my  hermitage. 

I  spare  to  tell  of  what  ensued,  the  life 

In  common  things  —  the  endless  store  of  things, 

Rare,  or  at  least  so  seeming,  every  day  no 

Found  all  about  me  in  one  neighborhood  — 


BOOK  FIRST.  7 

The  self- congratulation,  and,  from  morn 

To  night,  unbroken  cheerfulness  serene. 

But  speedily  an  earnest  longing  rose 

To  brace  myself  to  some  determined  aim, 

Reading  or  thinking ;  either  to  lay  up 

New  stores,  or  rescue  from  decay  the  old 

By  timely  interference  :  and  therewith 

Came  hopes  still  higher,  that  with  outward  life 

I  might  endue  some  airy  phantasies  120 

That  had  been  floating  loose  about  for  years, 

And  to  such  beings  temperately  deal  forth 

The  many  feelings  that  oppressed  my  heart. 

That  hope  hath  been  discouraged ;  welcome  light 

Dawns  from  the  east,  but  dawns  to  disappear 

And  mock  me  with  a  sky  that  ripens  not 

Into  a  steady  morning  :  if  my  mind, 

Remembering  the  bold  promise  of  the  past, 

Would  gladly  grapple  with  some  noble  theme, 

Vain  is  her  wish  ;  where'er  she  turns  she  finds  130 

Impediments  from  day  to  day  renewed. 

And  now  it  would  content  me  to  yield  up 
Those  lofty  hopes  awhile,  for  present  gifts 
Of  humbler  industry.     But,  oh,  dear  Friend  ! 
The  Poet,  gentle  creature  as  he  is, 
Hath,  like  the  Lover,  his  unruly  times ; 
His  fits  when  he  is  neither  sick  -nor  well, 
Though  no  distress  be  near  him  but  his  own 
Unmanageable  thoughts  :  his  mind,  best  pleased 
While  she  as  duteous  as  the  mother  dove  140 

Sits  brooding,  lives  not  always  to  that  end, 


THE  PRELUDE. 

But  like  the  innocent  bird,  hath  goadings  on 
That  drive  her  as  in  trouble  through  the  groves  ; 
With  me  is  now  such  passion,  to  be  blamed 
No  otherwise  than  as  it  lasts  too  long. 

When,  as  becomes  a  man  who  would  prepare 
For  such  an  arduous  work,  I  through  myself 
Make  rigorous  inquisition,  the  report 
Is  often  cheering ;  for  I  neither  seem 
To  lack  that  first  great  gift,  the  vital  soul,  150 

Nor  general  Truths,  which  are  themselves  a  sort 
Of  Elements  and  Agents,  Under-powers, 
Subordinate  helpers  of  the  living  mind  : 
Nor  am  I  naked  of  external  things, 
Forms,  images,  nor  numerous  other  aids 
Of  less  regard,  though  won  perhaps  with  toil 
And  needful  to  build  up  a  Poet's  praise. 
Time,  place,  and  manners  do  I  seek,  and  these 
Are  found  in  plenteous  store,  but  nowhere  such 
As  may  be  singled  out  with  steady  choice ;  160 

No  little  band  of  yet  remembered  names 
Whom  I,  in  perfect  confidence,  might  hope 
To  summon  back  from  lonesome  banishment, 
And  make  them  dwellers  in  the  hearts  of  men 
Now  living,  or  to  live  in  future  years. 
Sometimes  the  ambitious  Power  of  choice,  mistaking 
Proud  spring-tide  swellings  for  a  regular  sea, 
Will  settle  on  some  British  theme,  some  old 
Romantic  tale  by  Milton  left  unsung ; 
More  often  turning  to  some  gentle  place  170 

Within  the  groves  of  Chivalry,  I  pipe 


BOOK  FIRST.  9 

To  shepherd  swains,  or  seated  harp  in  hand, 

Amid  reposing  knights  by  a  river  side 

Or  fountain,  listen  to  the  grave  reports 

Of  dire  enchantments  faced  and  overcome 

By  the  strong  mind,  and  tales  of  warlike  feats, 

Where  spear  encountered  spear,  and  sword  with  sword 

Fought,  as  if  conscious  of  the  blazonry 

That  the  shield  bore,  so  glorious  was  the  strife ; 

Whence  inspiration  for  a  song  that  winds  180 

Through  ever  changing  scenes  of  votive  quest 

Wrongs  to  redress,  harmonious  tribute  paid 

To  patient  courage,  and  unblemished  truth, 

To  firm  devotion,  zeal  unquenchable, 

And  Christian  meekness  hallowing  faithful  loves. 

Sometimes,  more  sternly  moved,  I  would  relate 

How  vanquished  Mithridates  northward  passed, 

And,  hidden  in  the  cloud  of  years,  became 

Odin,  the  Father  of  a  race  by  whom 

Perished  the  Roman  Empire ;  how  the  friends  190 

And  followers  of  Sertorious,  out  of  Spain, 

Flying,  found  shelter  in  the  Fortunate  Isles, 

And  left  their  usages,  their  arts  and  laws, 

To  disappear  by  a  slow  gradual  death,  * 

To  dwindle  and  to  perish  one  by  one, 

Starved  in  those  narrow  bounds  :  but  not  the  soul 

Of  Liberty,  which  fifteen  hundred  years 

Survived,  and,  when  the  European  came 

With  skill  and  power  that  might  not  be  withstood, 

Did,  like  a  pestilence,  maintain  its  hold  200 

And  wasted  down  by  glorious  death  that  race 

Of  natural  heroes  :  or  I  would  record 


10  THE  PRELUDE. 

How,  in  tyrannic  times,  some  high-souled  man, 

Unnamed  among  the  chronicles  of  kings, 

Suffered  in  silence  for  Truth's  sake  :  or  tell 

How  that  one  Frenchman,  through  continued  force 

Of  meditation  on  the  inhuman  deeds 

Of  those  who  conquered  first  the  Indian  Isles, 

Went  single  in  his  ministry  across 

The  Ocean;  not  to  comfort  the  oppressed,  210 

But,  like  a  thirsty  wind,  to  roam  about 

Withering  the  Oppressor ;  how  Gustavus  sought 

Help  at  his  need  in  Dalecarlia's  mines  : 

How  Wallace  fought  for  Scotland ;  left  the  name 

Of  Wallace  to  be  found,  like  a  wild  flower, 

All  over  his  dear  Country ;  left  the  deeds 

Of  Wallace,  like  a  family  of  Ghosts, 

To  people  the  steep  rocks  and  river  banks, 

Her  natural  sanctuaries,  with  a  local  soul 

Of  independence  and  stern  liberty.  220 

Sometimes  it  suits  me  better  to  invent 

A  tale  from  my  own  heart,  more  near  akin 

To  my  own  passions  and  habitual  thoughts ; 

Some  variegated  story,  in  the  main 

Lofty,  but  the  unsubstantial  structure  melts 

Before  the  very  sun  that  brightens  it, 

Mist  into  air  dissolving  !  then  a  wish, 

My  last  and  favorite  aspiration,  mounts 

With  yearning  towards  some  philosophic  song 

Of  Truth  that  cherishes  our  daily  life  ;  230 

With  meditations  passionate  from  deep 

Recesses  in  man's  heart,  immortal  verse 

Thoughtfully  fitted  to  the  Orphean  lyre ; 


BOOK  FIRST.  11 

But  from  this  awful  burthen  I  full  soon 

Take  refuge  and  beguile  myself  with  trust 

That  mellower  years  will  bring  a  riper  mind 

And  clearer  insight.     Thus  my  days  are  past 

In  contradiction  ;  with  no  skill  to  part 

Vague  longing,  haply  bred  by  want  of  power, 

From  paramount  impulse  not  to  be  withstood,  240 

A  timorous  capacity  from  prudence, 

From  circumspection,  infinite  delay. 

Humility  and  modest  awe  themselves 

Betray  me,  serving  often  for  a  cloak 

To  a  more  subtle  selfishness ;  that  now 

Locks  every  function  up  in  blank  reserve, 

Now  dupes  me,  trusting  to  an  anxious  eye 

That  with  intrusive  restlessness  beats  off 

Simplicity  and  self-presented  truth. 

Ah  !  better  far  than  this,  to  stray  about  250 

Voluptuously  through  fields  and  rural  walks, 

And  ask  no  record  of  the  hours,  resigned 

To  vacant  musing,  unreproved  neglect 

Of  all  things,  and  deliberate  holiday. 

Far  better  never  to  have  heard  the  name 

Of  zeal  and  just  ambition,  than  to  live 

Baffled  and  plagued  by  a  mind  that  every  hour 

Turns  recreant  to  her  task ;  takes  heart  again, 

Then  feels  immediately  some  hollow  thought 

Hang  like  an  interdict  upon  her  Uopes.  260 

This  is  my  lot ;  for  either  still  I  find 

Some  imperfection  in  the  chosen  theme, 

Or  see  of  absolute  accomplishment 

Much  wanting,  so  much  wanting,  in  myself, 


12  THE  PRELUDE. 

That  I  recoil  and  droop,  and  seek  repose 
In  listlessness  from  vain  perplexity, 
Unprofitably  travelling  toward  the  grave, 
Like  a  false  steward  who  hath  much  received 
And  renders  nothing  back. 

Was  it  for  this 

That  one,  the  fairest  of  all  rivers,  loved  270 

To  blend  his  murmurs  with  my  nurse's  song, 
And,  from  his  alder  shades  and  rocky  falls, 
And  from  his  fords  and  shallows,  sent  a  voice 
That  flowed  along  my-  dreams  ?  /  For  this,  didst  thou, 
O  Derwent !  winding  among  grassy  holms 
Where  I  was  looking  on,  a  babe  in  arms, 
Make  ceaseless  music  that  composed  my  thoughts 
To  more  than  infant  softness,  giving  me 
Amid  the  fretful  dwellings  of  mankind 
A  foretaste,  a  dim  earnest,  of  the  calm  280 

That  Nature  breathes  among  the  hills  and  groves  ? 
When  he  had  left  the  mountains  and  received 
On  his  smooth  breast  the  shadow  of  those  towers 
That  yet  survive,  a  shattered  monument 
Of  feudal  sway,  the  bright  blue  river  passed 
Along  the  margin  of  our  terrace  walk  ; 
A  tempting  playmate  whom  we  dearly  loved. 
Oh,  many  a  time  have  I,  a  five  years'  child, 
In  a  small  mill-race  severed  from  his  stream, 
Made  one  long  bathing  of  a  summer's  day ;  290 

Basked  in  the  sun,  and  plunged  and  basked  again 
Alternate,  all  a  summer's  day,  or  scoured 
The  sandy  fields,  leaping  through  flowery  groves 
Of  yellow  ragwort ;  or  when  rock  and  hill, 


BOOK  FIRST.  13 

The  woods,  and  distant  Skiddaw's  lofty  height, 

Were  bronzed  with  deepest  radiance,  stood  alone 

Beneath  the  sky,  as  if  I  had  been  born 

On  Indian  plains,  and  from  my  mother's  hut 

Had  run  abroad  in  wantonness,  to  sport 

A  naked  savage,  in  the  thunder  shower.  300 


Fair  seed-time  had  my  soul,  and  I  grew  up 
Fostered  alike  by  beauty  and  by  fear 
Much  favored  in  my  birth-place,  and  no  less 
In  that  beloved  Vale  to  which  ere  long 
We  were  transplanted  —  there  were  we  let  loose 
For  sports  of  wider  range.     Ere  I  had  told 
Ten  birth-days,  when  among  the  mountain  slopes 
Frost,  and  the  breath  of  frosty  wind,  had  snapped 
The  last  autumnal  crocus,  'twas  my  joy 
With  store  of  springes  o'er  my  shoulder  hung  310 

(To  range  the  open  heights  where  woodcocks  run 
Along  the  smooth  green  turf.     Through  half  the  night, 
Scudding  away  from  snare  to  snare,  I  plied 
That  anxious  visitation ;  —  moon  and  stars 

•  Were  shining  o'er  my  head.     I  was  alone, 
And  seemed  to  be  a  trouble  to  the  peace 
That  dwelt  among  them.     Sometimes  it  befell 
In  these  night  wanderings,  that  a  strong  desire 

'  O'erpowered  my  better  reason,  and  the  bird 
Which  was  the  captive  of  another's  toil  320 

Became  my  prey ;  and  when  the  deed  was  done 

1 1  heard  among  the  solitary  hills 
Low  breathings  coming  after  me,  and  sounds 


14  THE  PRELUDE. 

. 

i  Of  un distinguishable  motion,  steps 
Almost  as  silent  as  the  turf  they  trod. 

i 

Nor  less  when  spring  had  warmed  the  cultured  Vale, 

Moved  we  as  plunderers  where  the  mother-bird 

Had  in  high  places  built  her  lodge  ;  though  mean 

Our  object  and  inglorious,  yet  the  end 

Was  not  ignoble.     Oh  !  when  I  have  hung  330 

Above  the  raven's  nest,  by  knots  of  grass 

And  half-inch  fissures  in  the  slippery  rock 

But  ill  sustained,  and  almost  (so  it  seemed) 

Suspended  by  the  blast  that  blew  amain, 

Shouldering  the  naked  crag,  oh,  at  that  time 

While  on  the  perilous  ridge  I  hung  alone, 

With  what  strange  utterance  did  the  loud  dry  wind 

Blow  through  my  ear  !  the  sky  seemed  not  a  sky 

Of  earth  —  and  with  what  motion  moved  the  clouds  ! 

Dust  as  we  are,  the  immortal  spirit  grows  340 

Like  harmony  in  music  ;  there  is  a  dark 
Inscrutable  workmanship  that  reconciles 
Discordant  elements,  makes  them  cling  together 
In  one  society.     How  strange  that  all 
The  terrors,  pains,  and  early  miseries, 
Regrets,  vexations,  lassitudes  interfused 
Within  my  mind,  should  e'er  have  borne  a  part, 
And  that  a  needful  part,  in  making  up 
The  calm  existence  that  is  mine  when  I 
Am  worthy  of  myself !     Praise  to  the  end  !  350 

Thanks  to  the  means  which  Nature  deigned  to  employ ; 
Whether  her  fearless  visitings,  or  those 


BOOK  FIRST.  15 

That  came  with  soft  alarm,  like  hurtless  light 
Opening  the  peaceful  clouds ;  or  she  may  use 
Severer  interventions,  ministry 
More  palpable,  as  best  might  suit  her  aim. 

One  summer  evening  (led  by  her)  I  found 
A  little  boat  tied  to  a  willow  tree 
Within  a  rocky  cove,  its  usual  home. 
Straight  I  unloosed  her  chain,  and  stepping  in  360 

Pushed  from  the  shore.     It  was  an  act  of  stealth 
And  troubled  pleasure,  nor  without  the  voice 
Of  mountain-echoes  did  my  boat  move  on ; 
Leaving  behind  her  still,  on  either  side, 
Small  circles  glittering  idly  in  the  moon, 
Until  they  melted  all  into  one  track 
Of  sparkling  light.     But  now,  like  one  who  rows, 
Proud  of  his  skill,  to  reach  a  chosen  point 
With  an  unswerving  line,  I  fixed  my  view 
Upon  the  summit  of  a  craggy  ridge,  370 

The  horizon's  utmost  boundary  ;  far  above 
Was  nothing  but  the  stars  and  the  gray  sky. 
She  was  an  elfin  pinnace  ;  lustily 
I  dipped  my  oars  into  the  silent  lake, 
And,  as  I  rose  upon  the  stroke,  my  boat 
Went  heaving  through  the  water  like  a  swan ; 
When,  from  behind  that  craggy  steep  till  then 
The  horizon's  bound,  a  huge  peak,  black  and  huge, 
As  if  with  voluntary  power  instinct 
Upreared  its  head.     I  struck  and  struck  again,  380 

And  growing  still  in  stature  the  grim  shape 
Towered  up  between  me  and  the  stars,  and  still, 


16  THE  PRELUDE, 

For  so  it  seemed,  with  purpose  of  its  own 

And  measured  motion  like  a  living  thing, 

Strode  after  me.     With  trembling  oars  I  turned, 

And  through  the  silent  water  stole  my  way 

Back  to  the  covert  of  the  willow  tree  ; 

There  in  her  mooring-place  I  left  my  bark,  — 

And  through  the  meadows  homeward  went,  in  grave 

And  serious  mood ;  but  after  I  had  seen  390 

That  spectacle,  for  many  days,  my  brain 

Worked  with  a  dim  and  undetermined  sense 

Of  unknown  modes  of  being ;  o'er  my  thoughts 

There  hung  a  darkness,  call  it  solitude 

Or  blank  desertion.     No  familiar  shapes 

Remained,  no  pleasant  images  of  trees, 

Of  sea  or  sky,  no  colors  of  green  fields ; 

But  huge  and  mighty  forms,  that  do  not  live 

Like  living  men,  moved  slowly  through  the  mind 

By  day,  and  were  a  trouble  to  my  dreams.  400 

Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe  ! 
Thou  Soul  that  art  the  eternity  of  thought, 
That  givest  to  forms  and  images  a  breath 
And  everlasting  motion,  not  in  vain 
By  day  or  star-light  thus  from  my  first  dawn 
Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 
The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul ; 
Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  man, 
But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things — 
With  life  and  nature  —  purifying  thus  410 

The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 
And  sanctifying,  by  such  discipline, 


BOOK  FIRST.  17 

Both  pain  and  fear,  until  we  recognize 

A  grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart. 

Nor  was  this  fellowship  vouchsafed  to  me 

With  stinted  kindness.     In  November  days, 

When  vapors  rolling  down  the  valley  made 

A  lonely  scene  more  lonesome,  among  woods, 

At  noon  and  'mid  the  calm  of  summer  nights, 

When,  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling  lake,  420 

Beneath  the  gloomy  hills  homeward  I  went 

In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine  ; 

Mine  was  it  in  the  fields  both  day  and  night, 

And  by  the  waters,  all  the  summer  long. 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and  visible  for  many  a  mile 
The  cottage  windows  blazed  through  twilight  gloom, 
I  heeded  not  their  summons  :  happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us  —  for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture  !     Clear  and  loud  430 

The  village  clock  tolled  six,  —  I  wheeled  about, 
Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  his  home.     All  shod  with  steel, 
We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice  in  games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland  pleasures,  —  the  resounding  horn, 
The  pack  loud  chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare. 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle ;  with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud ;  44° 

The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron  ;  while  far  distant  hills 


18 


THE  PRELUDE. 


Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 

Of  melancholy  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars 

Eastward  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 

The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 

Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 

Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 

Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng, 

To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star  450 

That  fled,  and,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 

Upon  the  glassy  plain ;  and  oftentimes, 

When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 

And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 

Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 

The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 

Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 

Stopped  short ;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 

Wheeled  by  me  —  even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 

With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round  !  460 

Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 

Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  stood  and  watched 

Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  dreamless  sleep. 

Ye  Presences  of  Nature  in  the  sky 
And  on  the  earth  !     Ye  visions  of  the  hills  ! 
And  Souls  of  lonely  places  !  can  I  think 
A  vulgar  hope  was  yours  when  ye  employed 
Such  ministry,  when  ye  through  many  a  year 
Haunting  me  thus  among  my  boyish  sports,    • 
On  caves  and  trees,  upon  the  woods  and  hills,  470 

Impressed  upon  all  forms  the  characters 
Of  danger  or  desire ;  and  thus  did  make 


BOOK  FIRST.  19 

The  surface  of  the  universal  earth 

With  triumph  and  delight,  with  hope  and  fear, 

Work  like  a  sea? 

Not  uselessly  employed, 

Might  I  pursue  this  theme  through  every  change 
Of  exercise  and  play,  to  which  the  year 
Did  summon  us  in  his  delightful  round. 

We  were  a  noisy  crew ;  the  sun  in  heaven 
Beheld  not  vales  more  beautiful  than  ours ;  480 

Nor  saw  a  band  in  happiness  and  joy 
Richer,  or  worthier  of  the  ground  they  trod. 
I  could  record  with  no  reluctant  voice 
The  woods  of  autumn,  and  their  hazel  bowers 
With  milk-white  clusters  hung ;  the  rod  and  line, 
True  symbol  .of  hope's  foolishness,  whose  strong 
And  unreproved  enchantment  led  us  on 
By  rocks  and  pools  shut  out  from  every  star, 
All  the  green  summer,  to  forlorn  cascades 
Among  the  windings  hid  of  mountain  brooks,  490 

—  Unfading  recollections  !  at  this  hour 
The  heart  is  almost  mine  with  which  I  felt, 
From  some  hill-top  on  sunny  afternoons, 
The  paper  kite  high  among  fleecy  clouds 
Pull  at  her  rein  like  an  impetuous  courser ; 
Or,  from  the  meadows  sent  on  gusty  days, 
Beheld  her  breast  the  wind,  then  suddenly 
Dashed  headlong,  and  rejected  by  the  storm. 

Ye  lowly  cottages  wherein  we  dwelt, 
A  ministration  of  your  own  was  yours ;  500 


20  THE  PRELUDE. 

Can  I  forget  you,  being  as  you  were 

So  beautiful  among  the  pleasant  fields 

In  which  ye  stood  ?  or  can  I  here  forget 

The  plain  and  seemly  countenance  with  which 

Ye  dealt  out  your  plain  comforts  ?    Yet  had  ye 

Delights  and  exultations  of  your  own. 

Eager  and  never  weary  we  pursued 

Our  home-amusements  by  the  warm  peat-fire 

At  evening,  when  with  pencil,  and  smooth  slate 

In  square  divisions  parcelled  out  and  all  510 

With  crosses  and  with  cyphers  scribbled  o'er, 

We  schemed  and  puzzled,  head  opposed  to  head 

In  strife  too  humble  to  be  named  in  verse ; 

Or  round  the  naked  table,  snow-white  deal, 

Cherry  or  maple,  sate  in  close  array, 

And  to  the  combat,  Loo  or  Whist,  led  on 

A  thick-ribbed  army ;  not,  as  in  the  world, 

Neglected  and  ungratefully  thrown  by 

Even  for  the  very  service  they  had  wrought, 

But  husbanded  through  many  a  long  campaign.  520 

Uncouth  assemblage  was  it,  where  no  few 

Had  changed  their  functions  ;  some,  plebeian  cards 

Which  Fate,  beyond  the  promise  of  their  birth, 

Had  dignified,  and  called  to  represent 

The  persons  of  departed  potentates. 

Oh,  with  what  echoes  on  the  board  they  fell ! 

Ironic  diamonds,  —  clubs,  hearts,  diamonds,  spades, 

A  congregation  piteously  akin  ! 

Cheap  matter  offered  they  to  boyish  wit, 

Those  sooty  knaves,  precipitated  down  530 

With  scoffs  and  taunts,  like  Vulcan  out  of  heaven  : 


BOOK  FIRST.  21 

The  paramount  ace,  a  moon  in  her  eclipse, 

Queens  gleaming  through  their  splendor's  last  decay, 

And  monarchs  surly  at  the  wrongs  sustained 

By  royal  visages.     Meanwhile  abroad 

Incessant  rain  was  falling,  or  the  frost 

Raged  bitterly,  with  keen  and  silent  tooth ; 

And,  interrupting  oft  that  eager  game, 

From  under  Esthwaite's  splitting  fields  of  ice 

The  pent-up  air,  struggling  to  free  itself,  540 

Gave  out  to  meadow  grounds  and  hills  a  loud 

Protracted  yelling,  like  the  noise  of  wolves 

Howling  in  troops  along  the  Bothnic  Main. 

Nor,  sedulous  as  I  have  been  to  trace 
How  Nature  by  extrinsic  passion  first 
Peopled  the  mind  with  forms  sublime  or  fair, 
And  made  me  love  them,  may  I  here  omit 
How  other  pleasures  have  been  mine,  and  joys 
Of  subtler  origin  ;  how  I  have  felt, 
Not  seldom  even  in  that  tempestuous  time,  550 

Those  hallowed  and  pure  motions  of  the  sense 
Which  seem,  in  their  simplicity,  to  own 
An  intellectual  charm  ;  that  calm  delight 
Which,  if  I  err  not,  surely  must  belong 
To  those  first-born  affinities  that  fit 
Our  new  existence  to  existing  things, 
And,  in  our  dawn  of  being,  constitute 
The  bond  of  union  between  life  and  joy. 

Yes,  I  remember  when  the  changeful  earth 
And  twice  five  summers  on  my  mind  had  stamped      560 


22  THE  PRELUDE. 

The  faces  of  the  moving  year,  even  then 
I  held  unconscious  intercourse  with  beauty 
Old  as  creation,  drinking  in  a  pure 
Organic  pleasure  from  the  silver  wreaths 
Of  curling  mist,  or  from  the  level  plain 
Of  waters  colored  by  impending  clouds. 

The  sands  of  Westmoreland,  the  creeks  and  bays 
Of  Cumbria's  rocky  limits,  they  can  tell 
How,  when  the  Sea  threw  off  his  evening  shade, 
And  to  the  shepherd's  hut  on  distant  hills  570 

Sent  welcome  notice  of  the  rising  moon, 
How  I  have  stood,  to  fancies  such  as  these 
A  stranger,  linking  with  the  spectacle 
No  conscious  memory  of  a  kindred  sight, 
And  bringing  with  me  no  peculiar  sense 
Of  quietness  or  peace ;  yet  have  I  stood, 
Even  while  mine  eye  hath  moved  o'er  many  a  league 
Of  shining  water,  gathering  as  it  seemed 
Through  every  hair-breadth  in  that  field  of  light 
New  pleasure  like  a  bee  among  the  flowers.  580 

Thus  oft  amid  those  fits  of  vulgar  joy 
Which,  through  all  seasons,  on  a  child's  pursuits 
Are  prompt  attendants,  'mid  that  giddy  bliss 
Which,  like  a  tempest,  works  along  the  blood 
And  is  forgotten ;  even  then  I  felt 
Gleams  like  the  flashing  of  a  shield  ;  —  the  earth 
And  common  face  of  Nature  spake  to  me 
Rememberable  things  ;  sometimes,  'tis  true, 
By  chance  collisions  and  quaint  accidents 


BOOK  FIRST.  23 

(Like  those  ill-sorted  unions,  work  supposed  590 

Of  evil-minded  fairies),  yet  not  vain 

Nor  profitless,  if  haply  they  impressed 

Collateral  objects  and  appearances, 

Albeit  lifeless  then,  and  doomed  to  sleep 

Until  maturer  seasons  called  them  forth 

To  impregnate  and  to  elevate  the  mind. 

—  And  if  the  vulgar  joy  by  its  own  weight 

Wearied  itself  out  of  the  memory, 

The  scenes  which  were  a  witness  of  that  joy 

Remained  in  their  substantial  lineaments  600 

Depicted  on  the  brain,  and  to  the  eye 

Were  visible,  a  daily  sight ;  and  thus 

By  the  impressive  discipline  of  fear, 

By  pleasure  and  repeated  happiness, 

So  frequently  repeated,  and  by  force 

Of  obscure  feelings  representative 

Of  things  forgotten,  these  same  scenes  so  bright, 

So  beautiful,  so  majestic  in  themselves, 

Though  yet  the  day  was  distant,  did  become 

Habitually  dear,  and  all  their  forms  610 

And  changeful  colors  by  invisible  links 

Were  fastened  to  the  affections. 

I  began 

My  story  early  —  not  misled,  I  trust, 
By  an  infirmity  of  love  for  days 
Disowned  by  memory  —  ere  the  breath  of  spring 
Planting  my  snowdrops  among  winter  snows  : 
Nor  will  it  seem  to  thee,  O  Friend  !  so  prompt 
In  sympathy,  that  I  have  lengthened  out 


24  THE  PRELUDE. 

With  fond  and  feeble  tongue  a  tedious  tale. 

Meanwhile,  my  hope  has  been  that  I  might  fetch       620 

Invigorating  thoughts  from  former  years  ; 

Might  fix  the  wavering  balance  of  my  mind, 

And  haply  meet  reproaches  too,  whose  power 

May  spur  me  on,  in  manhood  now  mature 

To  honorable  toil.     Yet  should  these  hopes 

Prove  vain,  and  thus  should  neither  I  be  taught 

To  understand  myself,  nor  thou  to  know 

With  better  knowledge  how  the  heart  was  framed 

Of  him  thou  lovest :  need  I  dread  from  thee 

Harsh  judgments,  if  the  song  be  loth  to  quit  630 

Those  recollected  hours  that  have  the  charm 

Of  visionary  things,  those  lovely  forms 

And  sweet  sensations  that  throw  back  our  life, 

And  almost  make  remotest  infancy 

A  visible  scene,  on  which  the  sun  is  shining  ? 

One  end  at  least  hath  been  attained ;  my  mind 
Hath  been  revived,  and  if  this  genial  mood 
Desert  me  not,  forthwith  shall  be  brought  down 
Through  later  years  the  story  of  my  life. 
The  road  lies  plain  before  me  ;  —  'tis  a  theme  640 

Single  and  of  determined  bounds ;  and  hence 
I  choose  it  rather  at  this  time,  than  work 
Of  ampler  or  more  varied  argument, 
Where  I  might  be  discomfited  and  lost : 
And  certain  hopes  are  with  me,  that  to  thee 
This  labor  will  be  welcome,  honored  Friend  ! 


BOOK  SECOND. 


SCHOOL-TIME.  —  Continued. 

THUS  far,  O  Friend  !  have  we,  though  leaving  much 

Unvisited,  endeavored  to  retrace 

The  simple  ways  in  which  my  childhood  walked : 

Those  chiefly  that  first  led  me  to  the  love 

Of  rivers,  woods,  and  fields.     The  passion  yet 

Was  in  its  birth,  sustained  as  might  befall 

By  nourishment  that  came  unsought ;  for  still 

From  week  to  week,  from  month  to  month,  we  lived 

A  round  of  tumult.     Duly  were  our  games 

Prolonged  in  summer  till  the  day-light  failed  : 

No  chair  remained  before  the  door ;  the  bench 

And  threshold  steps  were  empty ;  fast  asleep 

The  laborer,  and  the  old  man  who  had  sate 

A  later  lingerer,  yet  the  revelry 

Continued  and  the  loud  uproar  :  at  last, 

When  all  the  ground  was  dark,  and  twinkling  stars 

Edged  the  black  clouds,  home  and  to  bed  we  went, 

Feverish  with  weary  joints  and  beating  minds. 

Ah  !  is  there  one  who  ever  has  been  young, 

Nor  needs  a  warning  voice  to  tame  the  pride 

Of  intellect  and  virtue's  self-esteem  ! 


26  THE  PRELUDE. 

One  is  there,  though  the  wisest  and  the  best 

Of  all  mankind,  who  covets  not  at  times 

Union  that  cannot  be ;  —  who  would  not  give, 

If  so  he  might,  to  duty  and  to  truth 

The  eagerness  of  infantine  desire  ? 

A  tranquillizing  spirit  presses  now 

On  my  corporeal  frame,  so  wide  appears 

The  vacancy  between  me  and  those  days 

Which  yet  have  such  self-presence  in  my  mind  30 

That,  musing  on  them,  often  do  I  seem 

Two  consciousnesses,  conscious  of  myself 

And  of  some  other  Being.     A  rude  mass 

Of  native  rock,  left  midway  in  the  square 

Of  our  small  market  village,  was  the  goal 

Or  centre  of  these  sports  ;  and  when,  returned 

After  long  absence,  thither  I  repaired, 

Gone  was  the  old  gray  stone,  and  in  its  place 

A  smart  Assembly-room  usurped  the  ground 

That  hath  been  ours.     There  let  the  fiddle  scream,     40 

And  be  ye  happy  !     Yet,  my  Friends  !  I  know 

That  more  than  one  of  you  will  think  with  me 

Of  those  soft  starry  nights,  and  that  old  Dame 

From  whom  the  stone  was  named,  who  there  had  sate, 

And  watched  her  table  with  its  huckster's  wares 

Assiduous,  through  the  length  of  sixty  years. 

We  ran  a  boisterous  course  :.  the  year  span  round 
With  giddy  motion.     But  the  time  approached 
That  brought  with  it  a  regular  desire 
For  calmer  pleasures,  when  the  winning  forms  50 

Of  nature  were  collaterally  attached 


BOOK  SECOND.  27 

To  every  scheme  of  holiday  delight, 
And  every  boyish  sport,  less  grateful  else 
And  languidly  pursued. 

When  summer  came, 
Our  pastime  was,  on  bright  half- holidays, 
To  sweep  along  the  plain  of  Windermere 
With  rival  oars  ;  and  the  selected  bourne 
Was  now  an  Island  musical  with  Birds 
That  sang  and  ceased  not ;  now  a  sister  Isle 
Beneath  the  oaks'  umbrageous  covert,  sown  60 

With  lilies  of  the  valley  like  a  field  ; 
And  now  a  third  small  Island  where  survived 
In  solitude  the  ruins  of  a  shrine 
Once  to  Our  Lady  dedicate,  and  served 
Daily  with  chaunted  rites.     In  such  a  race 
So  ended,  disappointment  could  be  none, 
Uneasiness,  or  pain,  or  jealousy  : 
We  rested  in  the  shade,  all  pleased  alike, 
Conquered  and  conqueror.    Thus  the  pride  of  strength, 
And  the  vain-glory  of  superior  skill,  70 

Were  tempered  ;  thus  was  gradually  produced 
A  quiet  independence  of  the  heart ; 
And  to  my  Friend  who  knows  me  I  may  add, 
Fearless  of  blame,  that  hence  for  future  days 
Ensued  a  diffidence  and  modesty, 
And  I  was  taught  to  feel,  perhaps  too  much, 
The  self-sufficing  power  of  Solitude. 

Our  daily  meals  were  frugal,  Sabine  fare  ! 
More  than  we  wished  we  knew  the  blessing  then 
Of  vigorous  hunger  —  hence  corporeal  strength  80 


28  THE  PRELUDE. 

Unsapped  by  delicate  viands ;  for,  exclude 

A  little  weekly  stipend,  and  we  lived 

Through  three  divisions  of  the  quartered  year 

In  penniless  poverty.     But  now  to  school 

From  the  half-yearly  holidays  returned, 

We  came  with  weightier  purses,  that  sufficed 

To  furnish  treats  more  costly  than  the  Dame 

Of  the  old  gray  stone,  from  her  scant  board,  supplied. 

Hence  rustic  dinners  on  the  cool  green-ground, 

Or  in  the  woods,  or  by  a  river  side,  90 

Or  shady  fountains,  while  among  the  leaves 

Soft  airs  were  stirring,  and  the  mid-day  sun 

Unfelt  shone  brightly  round  us  in  our  joy. 

Nor  is  my  aim  neglected  if  I  tell 

How  sometimes,  in  the  length  of  those  half-years, 

We  from  our  funds  drew  largely  ;  —  proud  to  curb, 

And  eager  to  spur  on,  the  galloping  steed ; 

And  with  the  courteous  inn-keeper,  whose  stud 

Supplied  our  want,  we  haply  might  employ 

Sly  subterfuge,  if  the  adventure's  bound  100 

Were  distant :  some  famed  temple  where  of  yore 

The  Druids  worshipped,  or  the  antique  walls 

Of  that  large  Abbey  where  within  the  Vale 

Of  Nightshade,  to  St.  Mary's  honor  built, 

Stands  yet  a  mouldering  pile  with  fractured  arch, 

Belfry,  and  images,  and  living  trees ; 

A  holy  scene  !  —  Along  the  smooth  green  turf 

Our  horses  grazed.     To  more  than  inland  peace, 

Left  by  the  west  wind  sweeping  overhead 

From  a  tumultuous  ocean,  trees  and  towers  no 

In  that  sequestered  valley  may  be  seen, 


BOOK  SECOND.  29 

Both  silent  and  both  motionless  alike  : 
Such  the  deep  shelter  that  is  there,  and  such 
The  safeguard  for  repose  and  quietness. 

Our  steeds  remounted  and  the  summons  given, 
With  whip  and  spur  we  through  the  chauntry  flew 
In  uncouth  race,  and  left  the  cross-legged  knight, 
And  the  stone-abbot,  and  that  single  wren 
Which  one  day  sang  so  sweetly  in  the  nave 
Of  the  old  church,  that — though  from  recent  showers  120 
The  earth  was  comfortless,  and,  touched  by  faint 
Internal  breezes,  sobbings  of  the  place 
And  respirations,  from  the  roofless  walls 
The  shuddering  ivy  dripped  large  drops  —  yet  still 
So  sweetly  'mid  the  gloom  the  invisible  bird 
Sang  to  herself,  that  there  I  could  have  made 
My  dwelling-place,  and  lived  forever  there 
To  hear  such  music.     Through  the  walls  we  flew 
And  down  the  valley,  and,  a  circuit  made 
In  wantonness  of  heart,  through  rough  and  smooth     130 
We  scampered  homewards.     Oh,  ye  rocks  and  streams, 
And  that  still  spirit  shed  from  evening  air  ! 
Even  in  this  joyous  time  I  sometimes  felt 
Your  presence,  when  with  slackened  step  we  breathed 
Along  the  sides  of  the  steep  hills,  or  when 
Lighted  by  gleams  of  moonlight  from  the  sea 
We  beat  with  thundering  hoofs  the  level  sand. 

Midway  on  long  Winander's  eastern  shore, 
Within  the  crescent  of  a  pleasant  bay, 
A  tavern  stood  ;  no  homely-featured  house,  140 

Primeval  like  its  neighboring  cottages, 


30  THE  PRELUDE. 

But,  'twas  a  splendid  place,  the  door  beset 

With  chaises,  grooms,  and  liveries,  and  within 

Decanters,  glasses,  and  the  blood-red  wine. 

In  ancient  times,  and  ere  the  Hall  was  built 

On  the  large  island,  had  this  dwelling  been 

More  worthy  of  a  poet's  love,  a  hut, 

Proud  of  its  own  bright  fire  and  sycamore  shade. 

But — though  the  rhymes  were  gone  that  once  inscribed 

The  threshold,  and  large  golden  characters,  150 

Spread  o'er  the  spangled  sign-board,  had  dislodged 

The  old  Lion  and  usurped  his  place,  in  slight 

And  mockery  of  the  rustic  painter's  hand  — 

Yet,  to  this  hour,  the  spot  to  me  is  dear 

With  all  its  foolish  pomp.     The  garden  lay 

Upon  a  slope  surmounted  by  a  plain 

Of  a  small  bowling-green ;  beneath  us  stood 

A  grove,  with  gleams  of  water  through  the  trees 

And  over  the  treetops ;  nor  did  we  want 

Refreshment,  strawberries  and  mellow  cream.  160 

There,  while  through  half  an  afternoon  we  played 

On  the  smooth  platform,  whether  skill  prevailed 

Or  happy  blunder  triumphed,  bursts  of  glee 

Made  all  the  mountains  ring.     But,  ere  nightfall, 

When  in  our  pinnace  we  returned  at  leisure 

Over  the  shadowy  lake,  and  to  the  beach 

Of  some  small  island  steered  our  course  with  one, 

The  Minstrel  of  the  Troop,  and  left  him  there, 

And  rowed  off  gently,  while  he  blew  his  flute 

Alone  upon  the  rock  —  oh,  then,  the  calm  170 

And  dead  still  water  lay  upon  my  mind 

Even  with  a  weight  of  pleasure,  and  the  sky, 


BOOK  SECOND.  31 

Never  before  so  beautiful,  sank  down 

Into  my  heart,  and  held  me  like  a  dream  ! 

Thus  were  my  sympathies  enlarged,  and  thus 

Daily  the  common  range  of  visible  things 

Grew  dear  to  me  :  already  I  began 

To  love  the  sun ;  a  boy  I  loved  the  sun, 

Not  as  I  since  have  loved  him,  as  a  pledge 

And  surety  of  our  earthly  life,  a  light  180 

Which  we  behold  and  feel  we  are  alive ; 

Nor  for  his  bounty  to  so  many  worlds  — 

But  for  this  cause,  that  I  had  seen  him  lay 

His  beauty  on  the  morning  hills,  had  seen 

The  western  mountain  touch  his  setting  orb, 

In  many  a  thoughtless  hour,  when,  from  excess 

Of  happiness,  my  blood  appeared  to  flow 

For  its  own  pleasure,  and  I  breathed  with  joy. 

And,  from  like  feelings,  humble  though  intense, 

To  patriotic  and  domestic  love  190 

Analogous,  the  moon  to  me  was  dear : 

For  I  could  dream  away  my  purposes, 

Standing  to  gaze  upon  her  while  she  hung 

Midway  between  the  hills,  as  if  she  knew 

No  other  region,  but  belonged  to  thee, 

Yea,  appertained  by  a  peculiar  right 

To  thee  and  thy  gray  huts,  thou  one  dear  Vale  ! 

Those  incidental  charms  which  first  attached 
My  heart  to  rural  objects,  day  by  day 
Grew  weaker,  and  I  hasten  on  to  tell  200 

How  Nature,  intervenient  till  this  time 
And  secondary,  now  at  length  was  sought 


32  THE  PRELUDE. 

For  her  own  sake.     But  who  shall  parcel  out 

His  intellect  by  geometric  rules, 

Split  like  a  province  into  round  and  square  ? 

Who  knows  the  individual  hour  in  which 

His  habits  were  first  sown,  even  as  a  seed? 

Who  that  shall  point  as  with  a  wand  and  say 

"  This  portion  of  the  river  of  my  mind 

Came  from  yon  fountain  ?  "   Thou,  my  Friend  !  art  one  210 

More  deeply  read  in  thy  own  thoughts ;  to  thee 

Science  appears  but  what  in  truth  she  is, 

Not  as  our  glory  and  our  absolute  boast, 

But  as  a  succedaneum,  and  a  prop 

To  our  infirmity.     No  officious  slave 

Art  thou  of  that  false  secondary  power 

By  which  we  multiply  distinctions,  then 

Deem  that  our  puny  boundaries  are  things 

That  we  perceive,  and  not  that  we  have  made. 

To  thee,  unblinded  by  these  formal  arts,  220 

The  unity  of  all  hath  been  revealed, 

And  thou  wilt  doubt,  with  me  less  aptly  skilled 

Than  many  are  to  range  the  faculties 

In  scale  and  order,  class  the  cabinet 

Of  their  sensations,  and  in  voluble  phrase 

Run  through  the  history  and  birth  of  each 

As  of  a  single  independent  thing. 

Hard  task,  vain  hope,  to  analyze  the  mind, 

If  each  most  obvious  and  particular  thought, 

Not  in  a  mystical  and  idle  sense,  230 

But  in  the  words  of  Reason  deeply  weighed, 

Hath  no  beginning. 

Blest  the  infant  Babe, 


BOOK  SECOND.  33 

(For  with  my  best  conjecture  I  would  trace 

Our  Being's  earthly  progress) ,  blest  the  Babe, 

Nursed  in  his  Mother's  arms,  who  sinks  to  sleep 

Rocked  on  his  Mother's  breast ;  who  with  his  soul 

Drinks  in  the  feelings  of  his  Mother's  eye  ! 

For  him,  in  one  dear  Presence,  there  exists 

A  virtue  which  irradiates  and  exalts 

Objects  through  widest  intercourse  of  sense,  240 

No  outcast  he,  bewildered  and  depressed  : 

Along  his  infant  veins  are  interfused 

The  gravitation  and  the  filial  bond 

Of  nature  that  connect  him  with  the  world. 

Is  there  a  flower,  to  which  he  points  with  hand 

Too  weak  to  gather  it,  already  love 

Drawn  from  love's  purest  earthly  fount  for  him 

Hath  beautified  that  flower ;  already  shades 

Of  pity  cast  from  inward  tenderness 

Do  fall  around  him  upon  aught  that  bears  250 

Unsightly  marks  of  violence  or  harm. 

Emphatically  such  a  Being  lives, 

Frail  creature  as  he  is,  helpless  as  frail, 

An  inmate  of  this  active  universe  : 

For  feeling  has  to  him  imparted  power 

That  through  the  growing  faculties  of  sense 

Doth  like  an  agent  of  the  one  great  Mind 

Create,  creator  and  receiver  both, 

Working  but  in  alliance  with  the  works 

Which  it  beholds.  —  Such,  verily,  is  the  first  260 

Poetic  spirit  of  our  human  life, 

By  uniform  control  of  after  years, 

In  most,  abated  or  suppressed  ;  in  some, 


34  THE  PRELUDE. 

Through  every  change  of  growth  and  of  decay, 
Pre-eminent  till  death. 

From  early  days, 

Beginning  not  long  after  that  first  time 
In  which,  a  Babe,  by  intercourse  of  touch 
I  held  mute  dialogues  with  my  Mother's  heart, 
I  have  endeavored  to  display  the  means 
Whereby  this  infant  sensibility,  270 

Great  birthright  of  our  being,  was  in  me 
Augmented  and  sustained.     Yet  is  a  path 
More  difficult  before  me  ;  and  I  fear 
That  in  its  broken  windings  we  shall  need 
The  chamois'  sinews,  and  the  eagle's  wing, 
For  now  a  trouble  came  into  my  mind 
From  unknown  causes.     I  was  left  alone 
Seeking  the  visible  world,  nor  knowing  why. 
The  props  of  my  affection  were  removed, 
And  yet  the  building  stood,  as  if  sustained  280 

By  its  own  spirit !     All  that  I  beheld 
Was  dear,  and  hence  to  finer  influxes 
The  mind  lay  open  to  a  more  exact 
And  close  communion.     Many  are  our  joys 
In  youth,  but  oh  !  what  happiness  to  live 
When  every  hour  brings  palpable  access 
Of  knowledge,  when  all  knowledge  is  delight, 
And  sorrow  is  not  there  !     The  seasons  came, 
And  every  season  wheresoe'er  I  moved 
Unfolded  transitory  qualities,  290 

Which,  but  for  this  most  watchful  power  of  love, 
Had  been  neglected  ;  left  a  register 
Of  permanent  relations,  else  unknown. 


BOOK  SECOND.  35 

Hence  life,  and  change,  and  beauty,  solitude 

More  active  even  than  "  best  society  "  — 

Society  made  sweet  as  solitude 

By  silent  inobtrusive  sympathies, 

And  gentle  agitations  of  the  mind 

From  manifold  distinctions,  difference 

Perceived  in  things,  where,  to  the  unwatchful  eye,      300 

No  difference  is,  and  hence,  from  the  same  source, 

Sublimer  joy  ;  for  I  would  walk  alone, 

Under  the  quiet  stars,  and  at  that  time 

Have  felt  whate'er  there  is  of  power  in  sound 

To  breathe  an  elevated  mood,  by  form 

Or  image  unprofaned ;  and  I  would  stand, 

If  the  night  blackened  with  a  coming  storm, 

Beneath  some  rock,  listening  to  notes  that  are 

The  ghostly  language  of  the  ancient  earth, 

Or  make  their  dim  abode  in  distant  winds.  310 

Thence  did  I  drink  the  visionary  power : 

And  deem  not  profitless  those  fleeting  moods 

Of  shadowy  exultation  :  not  for  this 

That  they  are  kindred  to  our  purer  mind 

And  intellectual  life  ;  but  that  the  soul, 

Remembering  how  she  felt,  but  what  she  felt 

Remembering  not,  retains  an  obscure  sense 

Of  possible  sublimity,  whereto 

With  growing  faculties  she  doth  aspire, 

With  faculties  still  growing,  feeling  still  320 

That  whatsoever  point  they  gain,  they  yet 

Have  something  to  pursue. 

And  not  alone, 
'Mid  gloom  and  tumult,  but  no  less  'mid  fair 


36  THE  PRELUDE. 

And  tranquil  scenes,  that  universal  power 

And  fitness  in  the  latent  qualities 

And  essences  of  things,  by  which  the  mind 

Is  moved  with  feelings  of  delight,  to  me 

Came  strengthened  with  a  superadded  soul, 

A  virtue  not  its  own.     My  morning  walks 

Were  early ;  —  oft  before  the  hours  of  school  330 

I  travelled  round  our  little  lake,  five  miles 

Of  pleasant  wandering.     Happy  time  !  more  dear 

For  this,  that  one  was  by  my  side,  a  Friend, 

Then  passionately  loved ;  with  heart  how  full 

Would  he  peruse  these  lines  !     For  many  years 

Have  since  flowed  in  between  us,  and,  our  minds 

Both  silent  to  each  other,  at  this  time 

We  live  as  if  those  hours  had  never  been. 

Nor  seldom  did  I  lift  our  cottage  latch 

Far  earlier,  ere  one  smoke-wreath  had  risen  340 

From  human  dwelling,  or  the  vernal  thrush 

Was  audible  :  and  sate  among  the  woods 

Alone  upon  some  jutting  eminence, 

At  the  first  gleam  of  dawn-light,  when  the  Vale, 

Yet  slumbering,  lay  in  utter  solitude. 

How  shall  I  seek  the  origin  ?  where  find 

Faith  in  the  marvellous  things  which  then  I  felt? 

Oft  in  these  moments  such  a  holy  calm 

Would  overspread  my  soul  that  bodily  eyes 

Were  utterly  forgotten,  and  what  I  saw  350 

Appeared  like  something  in  myself,  a  dream, 

A  prospect  in  the  mind. 

'Twere  long  to  tell 
What  spring  and  autumn,  what  the  winter  snows, 


BOOK  SECOND.  37 

And  what  the  summer  shade,  what  day  and  night, 

Evening  and  morning,  sleep  and  waking,  thought 

From  sources  inexhaustible,  poured  forth 

To  feed  the  spirit  of  religious  love 

In  which  I  walked  with  Nature.     But  let  this 

Be  not  forgotten,  that  I  still  retained 

My  first  creative  sensibility ;  360 

That  by  the  regular  action  of  the  world 

My  soul  was  unsubdued.     A  plastic  power 

Abode  with  me ;  a  forming  hand,  at  times 

Rebellious,  acting  in  a  devious  mood ; 

A  local  spirit  of  his  own,  at  war 

With  general  tendency,  but,  for  the  most, 

Subservient  strictly  to  external  things 

With  which  it  communed.     An  auxiliar  light 

Came  from  my  mind,  which  on  the  setting  sun 

Bestowed  new  splendor  ;  the  melodious  birds,  370 

The  fluttering  breezes,  fountains  that  run  on 

Murmuring  so  sweetly  in  themselves,  obeyed 

A  like  dominion,  and  the  midnight  storm 

Grew  darker  in  the  presence  of  my  eye  : 

Hence  my  obeisance,  my  devotion  hence, 

And  hence  my  transport. 

Nor  should  this,  perchance, 
Pass  unrecorded,  that  I  still  had  loved 
The  exercise  and  produce  of  a  toil, 
That  analytic  industry  to  me 

More  pleasing,  and  whose  character  I  deem  380 

Is  more  poetic  as  resembling  more 
Creative  agency.     The  song  would  speak 
Of  that  interminable  building  reared 


38  THE  PRELUDE. 

By  observation  of  affinities 

In  objects  where  no  brotherhood  exists 

To  passive  minds.     My  seventeenth  year  was  come  ; 

And,  whether  from  this  habit  rooted  now 

So  deeply  in  my  mind,  or  from  excess 

In  the  great  social  principle  of  life 

Coercing  all  things  into  sympathy,  39° 

To  unorganic  natures  were  transferred 

My  own  enjoyments ;  or  the  power  of  truth 

Coming  in  revelation,  did  converse 

With  things  that  really  are ;  I,  at  this  time, 

Saw  blessings  spread  around  me  like  a  sea. 

Thus  while  the  days  flew  by  and  years  passed  on, 

From  Nature  and  her  overflowing  soul, 

I  had  received  so  much  that  all  my  thoughts 

Were  steeped  in  feeling ;  I  was  only  then 

Contented,  when  with  bliss  ineffable  400 

I  felt  the  sentiment  of  Being  spread 

O'er  all  that  moves  and  all  that  seemeth  still ; 

O'er  all  that,  lost  beyond  the  reach  of  thought 

And  human  knowledge,  to  the  human  eye 

Invisible,  yet  liveth  to  the  heart : 

O'er  all  that  leaps  and  runs,  and  shouts  and  sings, 

Or  beats  the  gladsome  air ;  o'er  all  that  glides 

Beneath  the  wave,  yea,  in  the  wave  itself, 

And  mighty  depth  of  waters.     Wonder  not 

If  high  the  transport,  great  the  joy  I  felt,  410 

Communing  in  this  sort  through  earth  and  heaven 

With  every  form  of  creature,  as  it  looked 

Towards  the  Uncreated  with  a  countenance 

Of  adoration,  with  an  eye  of  love. 


BOOK  SECOND.  39 

One  song  they  sang,  and  it  was  audible, 
Most  audible  then  when  the  fleshly  ear 
O'ercome  by  humblest  prelude  of  that  strain 
Forgot  her  functions,  and  slept  undisturbed. 

If  this  be  error,  and  another  faith 

Find  easier  access  to  the  pious  mind,  420 

Yet  were  I  grossly  destitute  of  all 
Those  human  sentiments  that  make  this  earth 
So  dear,  if  I  should  fail  with  grateful  voice 
To  speak  of  you,  ye  mountains,  and  ye  lakes 
And  sounding  cataracts,  ye  mists  and  winds 
That  dwell  among  the  hills  where  I  was  born. 
If  in  my  youth  I  have  been  pure  in  heart, 
If,  mingling  with  the  world,  I  am  content 
With  my  own  modest  pleasures,  and  have  lived 
With  God  and  Nature  communing,  removed  430 

From  little  enmities  and  low  desires, 
The  gift  is  yours  :  if  in  these  times  of  fear, 
This  melancholy  waste  of  hopes  o'erthrown, 
If,  'mid  indifference  and  apathy, 
And  wicked  exultation  when  good  men 
On  every  side  fall  off,  we  know  not  how, 
To  selfishness,  disguised  in  gentle  names 
Of  peace  and  quiet  and  domestic  love, 
Yet  mingled  not  unwillingly  with  sneers 
On  visionary  minds ;  if,  in  this  time  440 

Of  dereliction  and  dismay,  I  yet 
Despair  not  of  our  nature,  but  retain 
A  more  than  Roman  confidence,  a  faith 
That  fails  not,  in  all  sorrow  my  support, 


40  THE  PRELUDE. 

The  blessing  of  my  life ;  the  gift  of  yours, 

Ye  winds  and  sounding  cataracts  !  'tis  yours, 

Ye  mountains  !  thine,  O  Nature  !     Thou  hast  fed 

My  lofty  speculations  ;  and  in  thee, 

For  this  uneasy  heart  of  ours,  I  find 

A  never- failing  principle  of  joy  450 

And  purest  passion. 

Thou,  my  Friend  !  wert  reared 
In  the  great  city,  'mid  far  other  scenes ; 
But  we,  by  different  roads,  at  length  have  gained 
The  self-same  bourne.     And  for  this  cause  to  thee 
I  speak,  unapprehensive  of  contempt, 
The  insinuated  scoff  of  coward  tongues, 
And  all  that  silent  language  which  so  oft 
In  conversation  between  man  and  man 
Blots  from  the  human  countenance  all  trace 
Of  beauty  and  of  love.     For  thou  hast  sought  460 

The  truth  in  solitude,  and  since  the  days 
That  gave  liberty,  full  long  desired, 
To  serve  in  Nature's  Temple,  thou  hast  been 
The  most  assiduous  of  her  ministers  ; 
In  many  things  my  brother,  chiefly  here 
In  this  our  deep  devotion. 

Fare  thee  well ! 

Health  and  the  quiet  of  a  healthful  mind 
Attend  thee  !  seeking  oft  the  haunts  of  men, 
And  yet  more  often  living  with  thyself, 
And  for  thyself,  so  happily  shall  thy  days  .  470 

Be  many,  and  a  blessing  to  mankind. 


BOOK  THIRD. 


RESIDENCE  AT  CAMBRIDGE. 

IT  was  a  dreary  morning  when  the  wheels 
Rolled  over  a  wide  plain  o'erhung  with  clouds, 
And  nothing  cheered  our  way  till  first  we  saw 
The  long-roofed  chapel  of  King's  College  lift 
Turrets  and  pinnacles  in  answering  files, 
Extended  high  above  a  dusky  grove. 

Advancing,  we  espied  upon  the  road 
A  student  clothed  in  gown  and  tasselled  cap 
Striding  along  as  if  o'ertasked  by  Time, 
Or  covetous  of  exercise  and  air ;  : 

He  passed  —  nor  was  I  master  of  my  eyes 
Till  he  was  left  an  arrow's  flight  behind. 
As  near  and  nearer  to  the  spot  we  drew, 
It  seemed  to  suck  us  in  with  an  eddy's  force. 
Onward  we  drove  beneath  the  Castle  ;  caught, 
While  crossing  Magdalene  Bridge,  a  glimpse  of  Cam  ; 
And  at  the  Hoop  alighted,  famous  Inn. 

My  spirit  was  up,  my  thoughts  were  full  of  hope  ; 
Some  friends  I  had,  acquaintances  who  there 


42  THE  PRELUDE. 

Seemed  friends,  poor  simple  school-boys,  now  hung  round 

With  honor  and  importance  :  in  a  world  21 

Of  welcome  faces  up  and  down  I  roved ; 

Questions,  directions,  warnings  and  advice, 

Flowed  in  upon  me,  from  all  sides ;  fresh  day 

Of  pride  and  pleasure  !  to  myself  I  seemed 

A  man  of  business  and  expense,  and  went 

From  shop  to  shop  about  my  own  affairs, 

To  Tutor  or  to  Tailor,  as  befell, 

From  street  to  street  with  loose  and  careless  mind. 

I  was  the  dreamer,  they  the  dream  ;  I  roamed        30 
Delighted  through  the  motley  spectacle ; 
Gowns  grave,  or  gaudy,  doctors,  students,  streets, 
Courts,  cloisters,  flocks  of  churches,  gateways,  towers  : 
Migration  strange  for  a  stripling  of  the  hills, 
A  northern  villager. 

As  if  the  change 

Had  waited  on  some  Fairy's  wand,  at  once 
Behold  me  rich  in  monies,  and  attired 
A  splendid  garb,  with  hose  of  silk,  and  hair 
Powdered  like  rimy  trees,  when  frost  is  keen. 
My  lordly  dressing-gown,  I  pass  it  by,  4° 

With  other  signs  of  manhood  that  supplied 
The  lack  of  beard.  —  The  weeks  went  roundly  on, 
With  invitations,  suppers,  wine  and  fruit, 
Smooth  housekeeping  within,  and  all  without 
Liberal,  and  suiting  gentleman's  array. 

The  Evangelist  St.  John  my  patron  was  ; 
Three  Gothic  courts  are  his,  and  in  the  first 


BOOK   THIRD.  43 

Was  my  abiding-place,  a  nook  obscure  ; 

Right  underneath,  the  College  kitchens  made 

A  humming  sound,  less  tunable  than  bees,  50 

But  hardly  less  industrious  ;  with  shrill  notes 

Of  sharp  command  and  scolding  intermixed. 

Near  me  hung  Trinity's  loquacious  clock, 

Who  never  let  the  quarters,  night  or  day, 

Slip  by  him  unproclaimed,  and  told  the  hours 

Twice  over  with  a  male  and  female  voice. 

Her  pealing  organ  was  my  neighbor  too  ; 

And  from  my  pillow,  looking  forth  by  light 

Of  moon  or  favoring  stars,  I  could  behold 

The  antechapel  where  the  statue  stood  60 

Of  Newton  with  his  prism  and  silent  face, 

The  marble  index  of  a  mind  forever 

Voyaging  through  strange  seas  of  Thought  alone. 

Of  College  labors,  of  the  Lecturer's  room 
AH  studded  round,  as  thick  as  chairs  could  stand, 
With  loyal  students,  faithful  to  their  books, 
Half-and-half  idlers,  hardy  recusants, 
And  honest  dunces  —  of  important  days, 
Examinations,  when  the  man  was  weighed 
As  in  a  balance  !  of  excessive  hopes,  70 

Tremblings  withal  and  commendable  fears, 
Small  jealousies,  and  triumphs  good  or  bad  — 
Let  others  that  know  more  speak  as  they  know. 
Such  glory  was  but  little  sought  by  me, 
And  little  won.     Yet  from  the  first  crude  days 
Of  settling  time  in  this  untried  abode, 
I  was  disturbed  at  times  by  prudent  thoughts 


44  THE  PRELUDE. 

Wishing  to  hope  without  a  hope,  some  fear, 

About  my  future  worldly  maintenance, 

And,  more  than  all,  a  strangeness  in  the  mind,  80 

A  feeling  that  I  was  not  for  that  hour, 

Nor  for  that  place.     But  wherefore  be  cast  down? 

For  (not  to  speak  of  Reason  and  her  pure 

Reflective  acts  to  fix  the  moral  law 

Deep  in  the  conscience,  nor  of  Christian  Hope, 

Bowing  her  head  before  her  sister  Faith 

As  one  far  mightier),  hither  I  had  come, 

Bear  witness  Truth,  endowed  with  holy  powers 

And  faculties,  whether  to  work  or  feel. 

Oft  when  the  dazzling  show,  no  longer  new,  90 

Had  ceased  to  dazzle,  ofttimes  did  I  quit 

My  comrades,  leave  the  crowd,  buildings  and  groves, 

And  as  I  paced  alone  the  level  fields 

Far  from  those  lovely  sights  and  sounds  sublime 

With  which  I  had  been  conversant,  the  mind 

Drooped  not ;  but  there  into  herself  returning, 

With  prompt  rebound  seemed  fresh  as  heretofore. 

At  least  I  more  distinctly  recognized 

Her  native  instincts  :  let  me  dare  to  speak 

A  higher  language,  say  that  now  I  felt  100 

What  independent  solaces  were  mine, 

To  mitigate  the  injurious  sway  of  place 

Or  circumstance,  how  far  soever  changed 

In  youth,  or  to  be  changed  in  after  years. 

As,  if  awakened,  summoned,  roused,  constrained, 

I  looked  for  universal  things ;  perused 

The  common  countenance  of  earth  and  sky : 

Earth,  nowhere  unembellished  by  some  trace 


BOOK   THIRD.  45 

Of  that  first  Paradise  whence  man  was  driven ; 

And  sky,  whose  beauty  and  bounty  are  expressed        no 

By  the  proud  name  she  bears  —  the  name  of  Heaven. 

I  called  on  both  to  teach  me  what  they  might ; 

Or,  turning  the  mind  in  upon  herself, 

Pored,  watched,  expected,  listened,  spread  my  thoughts 

And  spread  them  with  a  wider  creeping ;  felt 

Incumbencies  more  awful,  visitings 

Of  the  Upholder  of  the  tranquil  soul 

That  tolerates  the  indignities  of  Time, 

And  from  the  centre  of  Eternity 

All  finite  motions  overruling,  lives  120 

In  glory  immutable.     But  peace  !  enough 

Here  to  record  that  I  was  mounting  now 

To  such  community  with  highest  truth  — 

A  track  pursuing,  not  untrod  before, 

From  strict  analogies  by  thought  supplied 

Or  consciousnesses  not  to  be  subdued. 

To  every  natural  form,  rock,  fruit  or  flower, 

Even  the  loose  stones  that  cover  the  highway, 

I  gave  a  moral  life  :  I  saw  them  feel, 

Or  linked  them  to  some  feeling  :   the  great  mass         130 

Lay  bedded  in  a  quickening  soul,  and  all 

That  I  beheld  respired  with  inward  meaning. 

Add  that  whate'er  of  Terror  or  of  Love 

Or  Beauty  Nature's  daily  face  put  on 

From  transitory  passion,  unto  this  * 

I  was  as  sensitive  as  waters  are 

To  the  sky's  influence  in  a  kindred  mood 

Of  passion  ;  was  obedient  as  a  lute, 

That  waits  upon  the  touches  of  the  wind. 


46  THE  PRELUDE. 

Unknown,  unthought  of,  yet  I  was  most  rkh  —          140 

I  had  a  world  about  me  —  'twas  my  own ; 

I  made  it,  for  it  only  lived  to  me, 

And  to  the  God  who  sees  into  the  heart. 

Such  sympathies,  though  rarely,  were  betrayed 

By  outward  gestures  and  by  visible  looks ; 

Some  called  it  madness  —  so  indeed  it  was, 

If  child-like  fruitfulness  in  passing  joy, 

If  steady  moods  of  thoughtfulness  matured 

To  inspiration,  sort  with  such  a  name ; 

If  prophecy  be  madness ;  if  things  viewed  150 

By  poets  in  old  time,  and  higher  up 

By  the  first  men,  earth's  first  inhabitants, 

May  in  these  tutored  days  no  more  be  seen 

With  undisordered  sight.     But  leaving  this, 

It  was  no  madness,  for  the  bodily  eye 

Amid  my  strongest  workings  evermore 

Was  searching  out  the  lines  of  difference 

As  they  lie  hid  in  all  external  forms, 

Near  or  remote,  minute  or  vast ;  an  eye 

Which,  from  a  tree,  a  stone,  a  withered  leaf,  160 

To  the  broad  ocean  and  the  azure  heavens 

Spangled  with  kindred  multitudes  of  stars, 

Could  find  no  surface  where  its  power  might  sleep  : 

Which  spake  perpetual  logic  to  my  soul, 

And  by  an  unrelenting  agency 

Did  bind  my  feelings  even  as  in  a  chain. 

And  here,  O  Friend  !  have  I  retraced  my  life 
Up  to  an  eminence,  and  told  a  tale 
Of  matters  which  not  falsely  may  be  called 


BOOK   THIRD.  47 

The  glory  of  my  youth.     Of  genius,  power,  170 

Creation,  and  divinity  itself, 

I  have  been  speaking,  for  my  theme  has  been 

What  passed  within  me.     Not  of  outward  things 

Done  visibly  for  other  minds,  words,  signs, 

Symbols  or  actions,  but  of  my  own  heart 

Have  I  been  speaking,  and  my  youthful  mind. 

0  Heavens  !  how  awful  is  the  might  of  souls, 
And  what  they  do  within  themselves  while  yet 
The  yoke  of  earth  is  new  to  them,  the  world 
Nothing  but  a  wild  field  where  they  were  sown.          180 
This  is,  in  truth,  heroic  argument, 

This  genuine  prowess,  which  I  wished  to  touch 
With  hand  however  weak,  but  in  the  main 
It  lies  far  hidden  from  the  reach  of  words. 
Points  have  we  all  of  us  within  our  souls 
Where  all  stand  single ;  this  I  feel,  and  make 
Breathings  for  incommunicable  powers  ; 
But  is  not  each  a  memory  to  himself? 
And,  therefore,  now  that  we  must  quit  this  theme, 

1  am  not  heartless,  for  there's  not  a  man  190 
That  lives  who  hath  not  known  his  god-like  hours, 
And  feels  not  what  an  empire  we  inherit 

As  natural  beings  in  the  strength  of  Nature. 


No  more ;  for  now  into  a  populous  plain 
We  must  descend.     A  Traveller  I  am, 
Whose  tale  is  only  of  himself;  even  so, 
So  be  it,  if  the  pure  of  heart  be  prompt 
To  follow  and  if  thou,  my  honored  Friend  ! 


48  THE  PRELUDE. 

Who  in  these  thoughts  art  ever  at  my  side, 
Support,  as  heretofore,  my  fainting  steps. 

It  hath  been  told,  that  when  the  first  delight 
That  flashed  upon  me  from  this  novel  show 
Had  failed,  the  mind  returned  into  herself; 
Yet  true  it  is,  that  I  had  made  a  change 
In  climate,  and  my  nature's  outward  coat 
Changed  also  slowly  and  insensibly. 
Full  oft  the  quiet  and  exalted  thoughts 
Of  loneliness  gave  way  to  empty  noise 
And  superficial  pastimes ;  now  and  then 
Forced  labor,  and  more  frequently  forced  hopes ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  a  treasonable  growth 
Of  indecisive  judgment,  that  impaired 
And  shook  the  mind's  simplicity  —  And  yet 
This  was  a  gladsome  time.     Could  I  behold  — 
Who,  less  insensible  than  sodden  clay 
In  a  sea-river's  bed  at  ebb  of  tide, 
Could  have  beheld  —  with  undelighted  heart, 
So  many  happy  youths,  so  wide  and  fair 
A  congregation  in  its  budding-time 
Of  health  and  hope,  and  beauty,  all  at  once 
So  many  divers  samples  from  the  growth 
Of  life's  sweet  season  —  could  have  seen  unmoved 
That  miscellaneous  garland  of  wild  flowers 
Decking  the  matron  temples  of  a  place 
So  famous  through  the  world  ?    To  me,  at  least, 
It  was  a  goodly  prospect ;  for,  in  sooth, 
Though  I  had  learnt  betimes  to  stand  unpropped, 
And  independent  musing  pleased  me  so 


BOOK   THIRD.  49 

That  spells  seemed  on  me  when  I  was  alone, 

Yet  could  I  only  cleave  to  solitude  230 

In  lonely  places  :  if  a  throng  was  near, 

That  way  I  leaned  by  nature,  for  my  heart 

Was  social,  and  loved  idleness  and  joy. 

Not  seeking  those  who  might  participate 
My  deeper  pleasures  (nay,  I  had  not  once, 
Though  not  unused  to  mutter  lonesome  songs, 
Even  with  myself  divided  such  delight, 
Or  looked  that  way  for  aught  that  might  be  clothed 
In  human  language),  easily  I  passed 
From  the  remembrances  of  better  things,  240 

And  slipped  into  the  ordinary  works 
Of  careless  youth,  unburthened,  unalarmed. 
Caverns  there  were  within  my  mind  which  sun 
Could  never  penetrate,  yet  did  there  not 
Want  store  of  leafy  arbors  where  the  light 
Might  enter  in  at  will.     Companionships, 
Friendships,  acquaintances,  were  welcome  all. 
We  sauntered,  played,  or  rioted,  we  talked 
Unprofitable  talk  at  morning  hours  ; 
Drifted  about  along  the  streets  and  walks,  250 

Read  lazily  in  trivial  books,  went  forth 
To  gallop  through  the  country  in  blind  zeal 
Of  senseless  horsemanship,  or  on  the  breast 
Of  Cam  sailed  boisterously,  and  let  the  stars 
Come  forth,  perhaps  without  one  quiet  thought. 

Such  was  the  tenor  of  the  second  act 
In  this  new  life.     Imagination  slept, 
And  yet  not  utterly.     I  could  not  print 


50  THE  PRELUDE. 

Ground  where  the  grass  had  yielded  to  the  steps 

Of  generations  of  illustrious  men,  260 

Unmoved.     I  could  not  always  lightly  pass 

Through  the  same  gateways,  sleep  where  they  had  slept, 

Wake  where  they  waked,  range  that  inclosure  old, 

That  garden  of  great  intellects,  undisturbed, 

Place  also  by  the  side  of  this  dark  sense 

Of  noble  feeling  that  those  spiritual  men, 

Even  the  great  Newton's  own  ethereal  self, 

Seemed  humbled  in  these  precincts  thence  to  be 

The  more  endeared.     Their  several  memories  here 

(Even  like  their  persons  in  their  portraits  clothed       270 

With  the  accustomed  garb  of  daily  life) 

Put  on  a  lowly  and  a  touching  grace 

Of  more  distinct  humanity,  that  left 

All  genuine  admiration  unimpaired. 

Beside  the  pleasant  Mill  of  Trompington 
I  laughed  with  Chaucer  in  the  hawthorn  shade ; 
Heard  him,  while  birds  were  warbling,  tell  his  tales 
Of  amorous  passion.     And  that  gentle  Bard, 
Chosen  by  the  Muses  for  their  Page  of  State  — 
Sweet  Spenser,  moving  through  his  clouded  heaven    280 
With  the  moon's  beauty  and  the  moon's  soft  pace, 
I  called  him  Brother,  Englishman,  and  Friend  ! 
Yea,  our  blind  Poet,  who,  in  his  later  day, 
Stood  almost  single,  uttering  odious  truth  — 
Darkness  before,  and  danger's  voice  behind, 
Soul  awful  —  if  the  earth  has  ever  lodged 
An  awful  soul  —  I  seemed  to  see  him  here 
Familiarly,  and  in  his  scholar's  dress 


BOOK  THIRD.  51 

Bounding  before  me,  yet  a  stripling  youth  — 

A  boy,  no  better,  with  his  rosy  cheeks  290 

Angelical,  keen  eye,  courageous  look, 

And  conscious  step  of  purity  and  pride. 

Among  the  band  of  my  compeers  was  one 

Whom  chance  had  stationed  in  the  very  room 

Honored  by  Milton's  name.     O  temperate  Bard  ! 

Be  it  confest  that,  for  the  first  time,  seated 

Within  thy  innocent  lodge  and  oratory, 

One  of  a  festive  circle,  I  poured  out 

Libations,  to  thy  memory  drank,  till  pride 

And  gratitude  grew  dizzy  in  a  brain  300 

Never  excited  by  the  fumes  of  wine 

Before  that  hour,  or  since.     Then,  forth  I  ran 

From  the  assembly  ;  through  a  length  of  streets, 

Ran,  ostrich-like,  to  reach  our  chapel  door 

In  not  a  desperate  or  opprobrious  time, 

Albeit  long  after  the  importunate  bell 

Had  stopped,  with  wearisome  Cassandra  voice 

No  longer  haunting  the  dark  winter  night. 

Call  back,  O  Friend  !  a  moment  to  thy  mind, 

The  place  itself  and  fashion  of  the  rites.  310 

With  careless  ostentation  shouldering  up 

My  surplice,  through  the  inferior  throng  I  clove 

Of  the  plain  Burghers,  who  in  audience  stood 

On  the  last  skirts  of  their  permitted  ground, 

Under  the  pealing  organ.     Empty  thoughts  ! 

I  am  ashamed  of  them  :  and  that  great  Bard, 

And  thou,  O  Friend  !  who  in  thy  ample  mind 

Hast  placed  me  high  above  my  best  deserts, 

Ye  will  forgive  the  weakness  of  that  hour, 


52  THE  PRELUDE, 

In  some  of  its  unworthy  vanities,  320 

Brother  to  many  more. 

In  this  mixed  sort 

The  months  passed  on,  remissly,  not  given  up 
To  wilful  alienation  from  the  right, 
Or  walks  of  open  scandal,  but  in  vague 
And  loose  indifference,  easy  likings,  aims 
Of  a  low  pitch  —  duty  and  zeal  dismissed, 
Yet  Nature,  or  a  happy  course  of  things 
Not  doing  in  their  stead  the  needful  work. 
The  memory  languidly  revolved,  the  heart 
Reposed  in  noontide  rest,  the  inner  pulse  330 

Of  contemplation  almost  failed  to  beat. 
Such  life  might  not  inaptly  be  compared 
To  a  floating  island,  an  amphibious  spot 
Unsound,  of  spongy  texture,  yet  withal 
\    Not  wanting  a  fair  face  of  water  weeds 

And  pleasant  flowers.     The  thirst  of  living  praise, 

Fit  reverence  for  the  glorious  Dead,  the  sight 

Of  those  long  vistas,  sacred  catacombs, 

Where  mighty  minds  lie  visibly  entombed, 

Have  often  stirred  the  heart  of  youth,  and  bred          340 

A  fervent  love  of  rigorous  discipline  — 

Alas  !  such  high  emotions  touched  not  me. 

Look  was  there  none  within  these  walls  to  shame 

My  easy  spirits,  and  discountenance 

Their  light  composure,  far  less  to  instil 

A  calm  resolve  of  mind,  firmly  addressed 

To  puissant  efforts.     Nor  was  this  the  blame 

Of  others,  but  my  own ;  I  should,  in  truth, 

As  far  as  doth  concern  my  single  self, 


BOOK   THIRD.  S3 

Misdeem  most  widely,  lodging  it  elsewhere  :  350 

For  I,  bred  up  'mid  Nature's  luxuries, 

Was  a  spoiled  child,  and  rambling  like  the  wind, 

As  I  had  done  in  daily  intercourse 

With  those  crystalline  rivers,  solemn  heights, 

And  mountains,  ranging  like  a  fowl  of  the  air, 

I  was  ill-tutored  for  captivity ; 

To  quit  my  pleasure,  and,  from  month  to  month, 

Take  up  a  station  calmly  on  the  perch 

Of  sedentary  peace.     Those  lovely  forms 

Had  also  left  less  space  within  my  mind,  360 

Which,  wrought  upon  instinctively,  had  found 

A  freshness  in  those  objects  of  her  love, 

A  winning  power,  beyond  all  other  power. 

Not  that  I  slighted  books,  —  that  were  to  lack 

All  sense,  —  but  other  passions  in  me^ruled, 

Passions  more  fervent,  making  me  less  prompt 

To  in-door  study  than  was  wise  or  well, 

Or  suited  to  those  years.     Yet  I,  though  used 

In  magisterial  liberty  to  rove, 

Culling  such  flowers  of  learning  as  might  tempt          370 

A  random  choice,  could  shadow  forth  a  place 

(If  now  I  yield  not  to  a  flattering  dream) 

Whose  studious  aspect  should  have  bent  me  down 

To  instantaneous  service,  should  at  once 

Have  made  me  pay  to  science  and  to  arts 

And  written  lore,  acknowledged  my  liege  lord, 

A  homage  frankly  offered  up,  like  that 

Which  I  had  paid  to  Nature.     Toil  and  pains 

In  this  recess,  by  thoughtful  Fancy  built, 

Should  spread  from  heart  to  heart ;  and  stately  groves, 


54  THE  PRELUDE. 

Majestic  edifices,  should  not  want  381 

A  corresponding  dignity  within. 
The  congregating  temper  that  pervades 
Our  unripe  years,  not  wasted,  should  be  taught 
v     To  minister  to  works  of  high  attempt  — 

Works  which  the  enthusiast  would  perform  with  love. 
Youth  should  be  awed,  religiously  possessed 
With  a  conviction  of  the  power  that  waits 
On  knowledge,  when  sincerely  sought  and  prized 
For  its  own  sake,  on  glory  and  on  praise  390 

If  but  by  labor  won,  and  fit  to  endure 
The  passing  day ;  should  learn  to  put  aside 
Her  trappings  here,  should  strip  them  off  abashed 
Before  antiquity  and  steadfast  truth 
And  strong  book-mindedness ;  and  over  all 
-,      A  healthy  sound  simplicity  should  reign, 
A  seemly  plainness,  name  it  what  you  will, 
Republican  or  pious. 

If  these  thoughts 
Are  a  gratuitous  emblazonry 

That  mocks  the  recreant  age  we  live  in,  then  400 

Be  Folly  and  False-seeming  free  to  affect 
Whatever  formal  gait  of  discipline 
Shall  raise  them  highest  in  their  own  esteem  — 
Let  them  parade  among  the  Schools  at  will, 
But  spare  the  House  of  God.     Was  ever  known 
The  witless  shepherd  who  persists  to  drive 
A  flock  that  thirsts  not  to  a  pool  disliked  ? 
A  weight  must  surely  hang  on  days  begun 
And  ended  with  such  mockery.     Be  wise, 


BOOK   THIRD.  55 

Ye  Presidents  and  Deans,  and,  till  the  spirit  410 

Of  ancient  times  revive,  and  youth  be  trained 

At  home  in  pious  service,  to  your  bells 

Give  seasonable  rest,  for  'tis  a  sound 

Hollow  as  ever  vexed  the  tranquil  air, 

And  your  officious  doings  bring  disgrace 

On  the  plain  steeples  of  our  English  Church, 

Whose  worship,  'mid  remotest  village  trees, 

Suffers  for  this.     Even  Science,  too,  at  hand 

In  daily  sight  of  this  irreverence, 

Is  smitten  thence  with  an  unnatural  taint,  420 

Loses  her  just  authority,  falls  beneath 

Collateral  suspicion,  else  unknown. 

This  truth  escaped  me  not,  and  I  confess, 

That  having  'mid  my  native  hills  given  loose 

To  a  schoolboy's  vision,  I  had  raised  a  pile 

Upon  the  basis  of  the  coming  time, 

That  fell  in  ruins  round  me.     Oh,  what  joy 

To  see  a  sanctuary  for  our  country's  youth 

Informed  with  such  a  spirit  as  might  be 

Its  own  protection ;  a  primeval  grove,  430 

Where,  though  the  shades  with  cheerfulness  were  filled, 

Nor  indigent  of  songs  warbled  from  crowds 

In  under-coverts,  yet  the  countenance 

Of  the  whole  place  should  bear  stamp  of  awe ; 

A  habitation  sober  and  demure 

For  ruminating  creatures,  a  domain 

For  quiet  things  to  wander  in ;  a  haunt 

In  which  the  heron  should  delight  to  feed 

By  the  shy  rivers,  and  the  pelican 

Upon  the  cypress  spire  in  lonely  thought  ^ 


56  THE  PRELUDE. 

Might  sit  and  sun  himself.  —  Alas  !  Alas  ! 

In  vain  for  such  solemnity  I  looked ; 

Mine  eyes  were  crossed  by  butterflies,  ears  vexed 

By  chattering  popinjays ;  the  inner  heart 

Seemed  trivial,  and  the  impresses  without 

Of  a  too  gaudy  region. 

Different  sight 

Those  venerable  Doctors  saw  of  old, 
When  all  who  dwelt  within  these  famous  walls 
Led  in  abstemiousness  a  studious  life ; 
When,  in  forlorn  and  naked  chambers  cooped  450 

And  crowded,  o'er  the  ponderous  books  they  hung 
Like  caterpillars  eating  out  their  way 
In  silence,  or  with  keen  devouring  noise 
Not  to  be  tracked  or  fathered.     Princes  then 
At  matins  froze,  and  couched  at  curfew-time, 
Trained  up  through  piety  and  zeal  to  prize 
Spare  diet,  patient  labor,  and  plain  weeds. 
O  seat  of  Arts  !  renowned  throughout  the  world  ! 
Far  different  service  in  those  homely  days 
The  Muses'  modest  nurslings  underwent  460 

From  their  first  childhood  :  in  that  glorious  time 
When  Learning,  like  a  stranger  come  from  far, 
Sounding  through  Christian  lands  her  trumpet,  roused 
Peasant  and  king,  when  boys  and  youths,  the  growth 
Of  ragged  villages  and  crazy  huts, 
Forsook  their  homes,  and,  errant  in  the  quest 
Of  Patron,  famous  school  or  friendly  nook, 
Where,  pensioned,  they  in  shelter  might  sit  down, 
From  town  to  town  and  through  wide  scattered  realms 


BOOK   THIRD.  57 

Journeyed  with  ponderous  folios  in  their  hands ;         470 

And  often,  starting  from  some  covert  place, 

Saluted  the  chance  comer  on  the  road, 

Crying,  "  An  obulus,  a  penny  give 

To  a  poor  scholar  !  "  —  when  illustrious  men, 

Lovers  of  truth,  by  penury  constrained, 

Bucer,  Erasmus,  or  Melancthon,  read 

Before  the  doors  or  windows  of  their  cells 

By  moonshine  through  mere  lack  of  taper  light. 

But  peace  to  vain  regrets  !     We  see  but  darkly 
Even  when  we  look  behind  us,  and  best  things  480 

Are  not  so  pure  by  nature  that  they  needs 
Must  keep  to  all,  as  fondly  all  believe, 
Their  highest  promise.     If  the  mariner, 
When  at  reluctant  distance  he  hath  passed 
Some  tempting  island,  could  but  know  the  ills 
That  must  have  fallen  upon  him  had  he  brought 
His  bark  to  land  upon  the  wished-for  shore, 
Good  cause  would  oft  be  his  to  thank  the  surf 
Whose  white  belt  scared  him  thence,  or  wind  that  blew 
Inexorably  adverse  :  for  myself  490 

I  grieve  not ;  happy  is  the  gowned  youth 
Who  only  misses  what  I  missed,  who  falls 
No  lower  than  I  fell. 

I  did  not  love, 

Judging  not  ill  perhaps,  the  timid  course 
Of  our  scholastic  studies  ;  could  have  wished 
To  see  the  river  flow  with  ampler  range 
And  freer  pace  ;  but  more,  far  more,  I  grieved 
To  see  displayed  among  an  eager  few, 


58  THE  PRELUDE. 

Who  in  the  field  of  contest  persevered, 

Passions  unworthy  of  youth's  generous  heart  500 

And  mounting  spirit,  pitiably  repaid, 

When  so  disturbed,  whatever  palms  are  won. 

From  these  I  turned  to  travel  with  the  shoal 

Of  more  unthinking  natures,  easy  minds 

And  pillowy,  yet  not  wanting  love  that  makes 

The  day  pass  lightly  on,  when  foresight  sleeps, 

And  wisdom  and  the  pledges  interchanged 

With  our  own  inner  being  are  forgot. 

Yet  was  this  deep  vacation  not  given  up 
To  utter  waste.     Hitherto  I  had  stood  510 

In  my  own  mind  remote  from  social  life, 
(At  least  from  what  we  commonly  so  name,) 
Like  a  lone  shepherd  on  a  promontory 
Who  lacking  occupation  looks  far  forth 
Into  the  boundless  sea,  and  rather  makes 
Than  finds  what  he  beholds.     And  sure  it  is, 
That  this  first  transit  from  the  smooth  delights 
And  wild  outlandish  walks  of  simple  youth 
To  something  that  resembles  an  approach 
Towards  human  business,  to  a  privileged  world          520 
Within  a  world,  a  midway  residence 
With  all  its  intervenient  imagery, 
Did  better  suit  my  visionary  mind, 
Far  better,  than  to  have  been  bolted  forth, 
Thrust  out  abruptly  into  Fortune's  way 
Among  the  conflicts  of  substantial  life ; 
By  a  more  just  gradation  did  lead  on 
To  higher  things ;  more  naturally  matured, 


BOOK   THIRD.  59 

For  permanent  possession,  better  fruits, 

Whether  of  truth  or  virtue,  to  ensue.  530 

In  serious  mood,  but  oftener,  I  confess, 

With  playful  zest  of  fancy,  did  we  note 

(How  could  we  less?)  the  manners  and  the  ways 

Of  those  who  lived  distinguished  by  the  badge 

Of  good  or  ill  report :  or  those  with  whom 

By  frame  of  Academic  discipline 

We  were  perforce  connected,  men  whose  sway 

And  known  authority  of  office  served 

To  set  our  minds  on  edge,  and  did  no  more. 

Nor  wanted  we  rich  pastime  of  this  kind,  540 

Found  everywhere,  but  chiefly  in  the  ring 

Of  the  grave  Elders,  men  unsecured,  grotesque 

In  character,  tricked  out  like  aged  trees 

Which  through  the  lapse  of  their  infirmity 

Give  ready  place  to  any  random  seed 

That  chooses  to  be  reared  upon  their  trunks. 

Here  on  my  view,  confronting  vividly 
These  shepherd  swains  whom  I  had  lately  left, 
Appeared  a  different  aspect  of  old  age ; 
How  different !  yet  both  distinctly  marked,  550 

Objects  embossed  to  catch  the  general  eye, 
Or  portraitures  for  special  use  designed, 
As  some  might  seem,  so  aptly  do  they  serve 
To  illustrate  Nature's  book  of  rudiments  — 
That  book  upheld  as  with  maternal  care 
When  she  would  enter  on  her  tender  scheme 
Of  teaching  comprehension  with  delight, 
And  mingling  playful  with  pathetic  thoughts. 


60  THE  PRELUDE. 

The  surfaces  of  artificial  life 

And  manners  finely  wrought,  the  delicate  race  560 

Of  colors,  lurking,  gleaming  up  and  down 
Through  that  state  arras  woven  with  silk  and  gold  : 
This  wily  interchange  of  snaky  hues, 
Willingly  or  unwillingly  revealed, 
I  neither  knew  nor  cared  for ;  and  as  such 
Were  wanting  here,  I  took  what  might  be  found 
Of  less  elaborate  fabric.     At  this  day 
I  smile,  in  many  a  mountain  solitude 
Conjuring  up  scenes  as  obsolete  in  freaks 
Of  character,  in  points  of  wit  as  broad,  570 

As  aught  by  wooden  images  performed 
For  entertainment  of  the  gaping  crowd 
At  wake  or  fair.     And  oftentimes  do  flit 
Remembrances  before  me  of  old  men  — 
Old  humorists,  who  have  been  long  in  their  graves, 
And  having  almost  in  my  mind  put  off 
Their  human  names,  have  into  phantoms  passed 
Of  texture  midway  between  life  and  books. 

I  play  the  loiterer :  'tis  enough  to  note 
That  here  in  dwarf  proportions  were  expressed          580 
The  limbs  of  the  great  world ;  its  eager  strifes 
Collaterally  portrayed,  as  in  mock  fight, 
A  tournament  of  blows,  some  hardly  dealt 
Though  short  of  mortal  combat ;  and  whate'er 
Might  in  this  pageant  be  supposed  to  hit 
An  artless  rustic's  notice,  this  way  less, 
More  that  way,  was  not  wasted  upon  me. 
And  yet  the  spectacle  may  well  demand 


BOOK   THIRD.  61 

A  more  substantial  name,  no  mimic  show, 

Itself  a  living  part  of  a  live  whole,  590 

A  creek  in  the  vast  sea ;  for  all  degrees 

And  shapes  of  spurious  fame  and  short-lived  praise 

Here  sate  in  state,  and  fed  with  daily  alms 

Retainers  won  away  from  solid  good ; 

And  here  was  Labor,  his  own  bond- slave ;  Hope, 

That  never  set  the  pains  against  the  prize ; 

Idleness  halting  with  his  weary  clog, 

And  poor  misguided  Shame,  and  witless  Fear, 

And  simple  Pleasure  foraging  for  Death ; 

Honor  misplaced,  and  Dignity  astray ;  600 

Feuds,  factions,  flatteries,  enmity,  and  guile 

Murmuring  submission,  and  bald  government, 

(The  idol  weak  as  the  idolater,) 

And  Decency  and  Custom  starving  Truth, 

And  blind  Authority  beating  with  his  staff 

The  child  that  might  have  led  him ;  Emptiness 

Followed  as  of  good  omen,  and  meek  Worth 

Left  to  herself  unheard  of  and  unknown. 

Of  these  and  other  kindred  notices 
I  cannot  say  what  portion  is  in  truth  610 

The  naked  recollection  of  that  time, 
And  what  may  rather  have  been  called  to  life 
By  after  meditation.     But  delight 
That,  in  an  easy  temper  lulled  asleep, 
Is  still  with  Innocence  its  own  reward, 
This  was  not  wanting.     Carelessly  I  roamed 
As  through  a  wide  museum  from  whose  stores 
A  casual  rarity  is  singled  out 


62  THE  PRELUDE. 

And  has  its  brief  perusal,  then  gives  way 

To  others,  all  supplanted  in  their  turn ;  620 

Till  'mid  this  crowded  neighborhood  of  things 

That  are  by  nature  most  unneighborly, 

The  head  turns  round  and  cannot  right  itself; 

And  though  an  aching  and  a  barren  sense 

Of  gay  confusion  still  be  uppermost, 

With  few  wise  longings  and  but  little  love, 

Yet  to  the  memory  something  cleaves  at  last, 

Whence  profit  may  be  drawn  in  times  to  come. 

Thus  in  submissive  idleness,  my  Friend  ! 
The  laboring  time  of  autumn,  winter,  spring,  630 

Eight  months  !  rolled  pleasingly  away ;  the  ninth 
Came  and  returned  me  to  my  native  hills. 


BOOK    FOURTH. 


SUMMER    VACATION. 

BRIGHT  was  the  summer's  noon  when  quickening  steps 

Followed  each  other  till  a  dreary  moor 

Was  crossed,  a  bare  ridge  clomb,  upon  whose  top 

Standing  alone,  as  from  a  rampart's  edge, 

I  overlooked  the  bed  of  Windermere, 

Like  a  vast  river,  stretching  in  the  sun. 

With  exultation,  at  my  feet  I  saw 

Lake,  islands,  promontories,  gleaming  bays, 

A  universe  of  Nature's  fairest  forms 

Proudly  revealed  with  instantaneous  burst,  i< 

Magnificent,  and  beautiful,  and  gay. 

I  bounded  down  the  hill  shouting  amain 

For  the  old  Ferryman ;  to  the  shout  the  rocks 

Replied,  and  when  the  Charon  of  the  flood 

Had  stayed  his  oars,  and  touched  the  jutting  pier, 

I  did  not  step  into  the  well-known  boat 

Without  a  cordial  greeting.     Thence  with  speed 

Up  the  familiar  hill  I  took  my  way 

Towards  that  sweet  Valley  where  I  had  been  reared ; 

'Twas  but  a  short  hour's  walk  ere  veering  round  2 

I  saw  the  snow-white  church  upon  her  hill 

Sit  like  a  throned  Lady,  sending  out 


64  THE  PRELUDE. 

A  gracious  look  all  over  her  domain. 

Yon  azure  smoke  betrays  the  lurking  town ; 

With  eager  footsteps  I  advance  and  reach 

The  cottage  threshold  where  my  journey  closed. 

Glad  welcome  had  I,  with  some  tears,  perhaps, 

From  my  old  Dame,  so  kind  and  motherly, 

While  she  perused  me  with  a  parent's  pride. 

The  thoughts  of  gratitude  shall  fall  like  dew  30 

Upon  thy  grave,  good  creature  !     While  my  heart 

Can  beat  never  will  I  forget  thy  name. 

Heaven's  blessing  be  upon  thee  where  thou  liest 

After  thy  innocent  and  busy  stir 

In  narrow  cares,  thy  little  daily,  growth 

Of  calm  enjoyments,  after  eighty  years, 

And  more  than  eighty,  of  untroubled  life, 

Childless,  yet  by  the  strangers  to  thy  blood 

Honored  with  little  less  than  filial  love. 

What  joy  was  mine  to  see  thee  once  again,  40 

Thee  and  thy  dwelling,  and  a  crowd  of  things 

About  its  narrow  precincts  all  beloved, 

And  many  of  them  seeming  yet  my  own  ! 

Why  should  I  speak  of  what  a  thousand  hearts 

Have  felt,  and  every  man  alive  can  guess  ? 

The  rooms,  the  court,  the  garden  were  not  left 

Long  unsaluted,  nor  the  sunny  seat 

Round  the  stone  table  under  the  dark  pine, 

Friendly  to  studious  or  to  festive  hours ; 

Nor  that  unruly  child  of  mountain  birth,  50 

The  famous  brook,  who,  soon  as  he  was  boxed 

Within  our  garden,  found  himself  at  once, 

As  if  by  trick  insidious  and  unkind, 


BOOK  FOURTH.  65 

Stripped  of  his  voice  and  left  to  dimple  down 

(Without  an  effort  and  without  a  will) 

A  channel  paved  by  man's  officious  care. 

I  looked  at  him  and  smiled,  and  smiled  again, 

And  in  the  press  of  twenty  thousand  thoughts, 

"  Ha,"  quoth  I,  "  pretty  prisoner,  are  you  there  !  " 

Well  might  sarcastic  fancy  then  have  whispered,  60 

"An  emblem  here  behold  of  chy  own  life  ; 

In  its  late  course  of  even  days  with  all 

Their  smooth  enthralment ;  "  but  the  heart  was  full, 

Too  full  for  that  reproach.     My  aged  Dame 

Walked  proudly  at  my  side  :  she  guided  me ; 

I  willing,  nay  —  nay,  wishing  to  be  led. 

The  face  of  every  neighbor  whom  I  met 

Was  like  a  volume  to  me ;  some  were  hailed 

Upon  the  road,  some  busy  at  their  work, 

Unceremonious  greetings  interchanged  70 

With  half  the  length  of  a  long  field  between. 

Among  my  schoolfellows,  I  scattered  round 

Like  recognitions,  but  with  some  constraint 

Attended,  doubtless,  with  a  little  pride, 

But  with  more  shame,  for  my  habiliments, 

The  transformation  wrought  by  gay  attire. 

Not  less  delighted  did  I  take  my  place 

At  our  domestic  table  :  and,  dear  Friend  ! 

In  this  endeavor  simply  to  relate 

A  Poet's  history,  may  I  leave  untold  80 

The  thankfulness  with  which  I  laid  me  down 

In  my  accustomed  bed,  more  welcome  now 

Perhaps  than  if  it  had  been  more  desired 

Or  been  more  often  thought  of  with  regret ; 


66  THE  PRELUDE. 

That  lowly  bed  whence  I  had  heard  the  wind 

Roar,  and  the  rain  beat  hard ;  where  I  so  oft 

Had  lain  awake  on  summer  nights  to  watch 

The  moon  in  splendor  couched  among  the  leaves 

Of  a  tall  ash,  that  near  our  cottage  stood  ; 

Had  watched  her  with  fixed  eyes  while  to  and  fro        90 

In  the  dark  summit  of  the  wavering  tree 

She  rocked  with  every  impulse  of  the  breeze. 

Among  the  favorites  whom  it  pleased  me  well 
To  see  again,  was  one  by  ancient  right 
Our  inmate,  a  rough  terrier  of  the  hills ; 
The  birth  and  call  of  nature  pre-ordained 
To  hunt  the  badger  and  unearth  the  fox 
Among  the  impervious  crags,  but  hating  been 
From  youth  our  own  adopted,  he  had  passed 
Into  a  gentler  service.     And  when  first  100 

The  boyish  spirit  flagged,  and  day  by  day 
Along  my  veins  I  kindled  with  the  stir, 
The  fermentation,  and  the  vernal  heat 
Of  poesy,  affecting  private  shades 
Like  a  sick  Lover,  then  this  dog  was  used 
To  watch  me,  an  attendant  and  a  friend, 
Obsequious  to  my  steps  early  and  late, 
Though  often  of  such  dilatory  walk 
Tired,  and  uneasy  at  the  halts  I  made. 
A  hundred  times  when,  roving  high  and  low,  no 

I  have  been  harassed  with  the  toil  of  verse, 
Much  pains  and  little  progress,  and  at  once 
Some  lovely  Image  in  the  song  rose  up 
Full-formed,  like  Venus  rising  from  the  sea ; 


BOOK  FOURTH.  67 

Then  have  I  darted  forwards  to  let  loose 

My  hand  upon  his  back  with  stormy  joy, 

Caressing  him  again  and  yet  again. 

And  when  at  evening  on  the  public  way 

I  sauntered,  like  a  river  murmuring 

And  talking  to  itself  when  all  things  else  120 

Are  still,  the  creature  trotted  on  before ; 

Such  was  his  custom  ;  but  whene'er  he  met 

A  passenger  approaching,  he  would  turn 

To  give  me  timely  notice,  and  straightway, 

Grateful  for  that  admonishment,  I  hushed 

My  voice,  composed  my  gait,  and,  with  the  air 

And  mien  of  one  whose  thoughts  are  free,  advanced 

To  give  and  take  a  greeting  that  might  save 

My  name  from  piteous  rumors,  such  as  wait 

On  men  suspected  to  be  crazed  in  brain.  130 

Those  walks  well  worthy  to  be  prized  and  loved  — 
Regretted  !  —  that  word,  too,  was  on  my  tongue, 
But  they  were  richly  laden  with  all  good, 
And  cannot  be  remembered  but  with  thanks 
And  gratitude,  and  perfect  joy  of  heart  — 
Those  walks  in  all  their  freshness  now  came  back 
Like  a  returning  Spring.     When  first  I  made 
Once  more  the  circuit  of  our  little  lake, 
If  ever  happiness  hath  lodged  with  man, 
That  day  consummate  happiness  was  mine,  140 

Wide-spreading^  steady,  calm,  contemplative. 
The  sun  was  set,  or  setting,  when  I  left 
Our  cottage  door,  and  evening  soon  brought  on 
A  sober  hour,  not  winning  or  serene, 


68  THE  PRELUDE. 

For  cold  and  raw  the  air  was,  and  untuned. 

But  as  a  face  we  love  is  sweetest  then, 

When  sorrow  damps  it,  or,  whatever  look 

It  chance  to  wear,  is  sweetest  if  the  heart 

Have  fulness  in  herself;  even  so  with  me 

It  fared  that  evening.     Gently  did  my  soul  150 

Put  off  her  veil,  and,  self-transmuted,  stood 

Naked,  as  in  the  presence  of  her  God. 

While  on  I  walked,  a  comfort  seemed  to  touch 

A  heart  that  had  not  been  disconsolate : 

Strength  came  where  weakness  was  not  known  to  be, 

At  least  not  felt ;  and  restoration  came 

Like  an  intruder  knocking  at  the  door 

Of  unacknowledged  weariness.     I  took 

The  balance,  and  with  firm  hand  weighed  myself. 

—  Of  that  external  scene  which  round  me  lay,  160 

Little  in  this  abstraction,  did  I  see ; 

Remembered  less ;  but  "I  had  inward  hopes 

And  swellings  of  the  spirit,  was  wrapped  and  soothed, 

Conversed  with  promises,  had  glimmering  views 

How  life  pervades  the  undecaying  mind ; 

How  the  immortal  soul  with  God-like  power 

Informs,  creates,  and  thaws  the  deepest  sleep 

That  time  can  lay  upon  her ;  how  on  earth, 

Man,  if  he  do  but  live  within  the  light 

Of  high  endeavors,  daily  spreads  abroad  170 

His  being,  armed  with  strength  that  cannot  fail. 

Nor  was  there  want  of  milder  thoughts,  of  love, 

Of  innocence,  and  holiday  repose ; 

And  more  than  pastoral  quiet,  'mid  the  stir 

Of  boldest  projects,  and  a  peaceful  end 


BOOK  FOURTH.  69 

At  last,  or  glorious,  by  endurance  won. 

Thus  musing,  in  a  wood  I  sate  me  down 

Alone,  continuing  there  to  muse  ;  the  slopes 

And  heights  meanwhile  were  slowly  overspread 

With  darkness,  and  before  a  rippling  breeze  180 

The  long  lake  lengthened  out  its  hoary  line, 

And  in  the  sheltered  coppice  where  I  sate, 

Around  me  from  among  the  hazel  leaves, 

Now  here,  now  there,  moved  by  the  straggling  wind, 

Came  ever  and  anon  a  breath-like  sound, 

Quick  as  the  pantings  of  a  faithful  dog, 

The  off  and  on  companion  of  my  walk  ; 

And  such,  at  times,  believing  them  to  be, 

I  turned  my  head  to  look  if  he  were  there ; 

Then  into  solemn  thought  I  passed  once  more.          190 

A  freshness  also  found  I  at  this  time 
In  human  Life,  the  daily  life  of  those 
Whose  occupations  really  I  loved  ; 
The  peaceful  scene  oft  rilled  me  with  surprise, 
Changed  like  a  garden  in  the  heat  of  spring 
After  an  eight-days'  absence.     For  (to  omit 
The  things  which  were  the  same  and  yet  appeared 
Far  otherwise)  amid  this  rural  solitude, 
A  narrow  Vale  where  each  was  known  to  all, 
'Twas  not  indifferent  to  a  youthful  mind  200 

To  mark  some  sheltering  bower  or  sunny  nook, 
Where  an  old  man  had  used  to  sit  alone, 
Now  vacant ;  pale-faced  babes  whom  I  had  left 
In  arms,  now  rosy  prattlers  at  the  feet 
Of  a  pleased  grandame  tottering  up  and  down ; 


70  THE  PRELUDE. 

And  growing  girls  whose  beauty,  filched  away 

With  all  its  pleasant  promises,  was  gone 

To  deck  some  slighted  playmate's  homely  cheek. 

Yes,  I  had  something  of  a  subtler  sense, 
And  often  looking  round  was  moved  to  smiles  210 

Such  as  a  delicate  work  of  humor  breeds ; 
I  read,  without  design,  the  opinions,  thoughts, 
Of  those  plain-living  people  now  observed 
With  clearer  knowledge  ;  with  another  eye 
I  saw  the  quiet  woodman  in  the  woods, 
The  shepherd  roam  the  hills.     With  new  delight, 
This  chiefly,  did  I  note  my  gray-haired  Dame ; 
Saw  her  go  forth  to  church  or  other  work 
Of  state  equipped  in  monumental  trim ; 
Short  velvet  cloak  (her  bonnet  of  the  like),  220 

A  mantle  such  as  Spanish  Cavaliers 
Wore  in  old  time.     Her  smooth  domestic  life, 
Affectionate  without  disquietude, 
Her  talk,  her  business,  pleased  me  ;  and  no  less 
Her  clear  though  shallow  stream  of  piety 
That  ran  on  Sabbath  days  a  fresher  course ; 
With  thoughts  unfelt  till  now  I  saw  her  read 
Her  Bible  on  hot  Sunday  afternoons, 
And  loved  the  book,  when  she  had  dropped  asleep 
And  made  of  it  a  pillow  for  her  head.  230 

Nor  less  do  I  remember  to  have  felt, 
Distinctly  manifested  at  this  time, 
A  human-heartedness  about  my  love 
For  objects  hitherto  the  absolute  wealth 
Of  my  own  private  being  and  no  more ; 


BOOK  FOURTH.  71 

Which  I  had  loved,  even  as  a  blessed  spirit 

Or  Angel,  if  he  were  to  dwell  on  earth, 

Might  love  in  individual  happiness. 

But  no^w  there  opened  on  me  other  thoughts 

Of  change,  congratulation  or  regret,  240 

A  pensive  feeling  !     It  spread  far  and  wide ; 

The  trees,  the  mountains  shared  it,  and  the  brooks, 

The  stars  of  Heaven,  now  seen  in  their  old  haunts  — 

White  Sirius  glittering  o'er  the  southern  crags, 

Orion  with  his  belt,  and  those  fair  Seven, 

Acquaintances  of  every  little  child, 

And  Jupiter,  my  own  beloved  star  ! 

Whatever  shadings  of  mortality, 

Whatever  imports  from  the  world  of  death 

Had  come  among  these  objects  heretofore,  250 

Were,  in  the  main,  of  mood  less  tender  :  strong, 

Deep,  gloomy  were  they,  and  severe ;  the  scatterings 

Of  awe  or  tremulous  dread,  that  had  given  way 

In  later  youth  to  yearnings  of  a  love 

Enthusiastic,  to  delight  and  hope. 

As  one  who  hangs  down-bending  from  the  side 
Of  a  slow-moving  boat,  upon  the  breast 
Of  a  still  water,  solacing  himself 
With  such  discoveries  as  his  eye  can  make 
Beneath  him  in  the  bottom  of  the  deep,  260 

Sees  many  beauteous  sights  —  weeds,  fishes,  flowers, 
Grots,  pebbles,  roots  of  trees,  and  fancies  more, 
Yet  often  is  perplexed,  and  cannot  part 
The  shadow  from  the  substance,  rocks  and  sky, 
Mountains  and  clouds,  reflected  in  the  depth 


72  THE  PRELUDE. 

Of  the  clear  flood,  from  things  which  there  abide 

In  their  true  dwelling ;  now  is  crossed  by  gleam 

Of  his  own  image,  by  a  sunbeam  now, 

And  wavering  motions  sent  he  knows  not  whence, 

Impediments  that  make  his  task  more  sweet ;  270 

Such  pleasant  office  have  we  long  pursued 

Incumbent  o'er  the  surface  of  past  time 

With  like  success,  nor  often  have  appeared 

Shapes  fairer  or  less  doubtfully  discerned 

Than  these  to  which  the  Tale,  indulgent  Friend  ! 

Would  now  direct  thy  notice.     Yet  in  spite 

Of  pleasure  won,  and  knowledge  not  withheld, 

There  was  an  inner  falling  off —  I  loved, 

Loved  deeply  all  that  had  been  loved  before, 

More  deeply  even  than  ever  :  but  a  swarm  280 

Of  heady  schemes  jostling  each  other,  gawds, 

And  feast  and  dance,  and  public  revelry, 

And  sports  and  games  (too  grateful  in  themselves, 

Yet  in  themselves  less  grateful,  I  believe, 

Than  as  they  were  a  badge  glossy  and  fresh 

Of  manliness  and  freedom)  all  conspired 

To  lure  my  mind  from  firm  habitual  quest 

Of  feeding  pleasures,  to  depress  the  zeal 

And  damp  those  yearnings  which  had  once  been  mine — 

A  wild,  unworldly-minded  youth,  given  up  290 

To  his  own  eager  thoughts.     It  would  demand 

Some  skill,  and  longer  time  than  may  be  spared, 

To  paint  these  vanities,  and  how  they  wrought 

In  haunts  where  they,  till  now,  had  been  unknown. 

It  seemed  the  very  garments  that  I  wore 

Preyed  on  my  strength,  and  stopped  the  quiet  stream 


BOOK  FOURTH.  73 

Of  self-forgetfulness. 

Yes,  that  heartless  chase 
Of  trivial  pleasures  was  a  poor  exchange 
For  books  and  nature  at  that  early  age. 
'Tis  true,  some  casual  knowledge  might  be  gained      300 
Of  character  or  life  ;  but  at  that  time, 
Of  manners  put  to  school  I  took  small  note, 
And  all  my  deeper  passions  lay  elsewhere. 
Far  better  had  it  been  to  exalt  the  mind 
By  solitary  study,  to  uphold 
Intense  desire  through  meditative  peace ; 
And  yet,  for  chastisement  of  these  regrets, 
The  memory  of  one  particular  hour 
Doth  here  rise  up  against  me.     'Mid  a  throng 
Of  maids  and  youths,  old  men,  and  matrons  staid,      310 
A  medley  of  all  tempers,  I  had  passed 
The  night  in  dancing,  gayety  and  mirth, 
With  din  of  instruments  and  shuffling  feet, 
And  glancing  forms,  and  tapers  glittering, 
And  unaimed  prattle  flying  up  and  down  ; 
Spirits  upon  the  stretch,  and  here  and  there 
Slight  shocks  of  young  love-liking  interspersed, 
Whose  transient  pleasure  mounted  to  the  head, 
And  tingled  through  the  veins.     Ere  we  retired, 
The  cock  had  crowed,  and  now  the  eastern  sky          320 
Was  kindling,  not  unseen,  from  humble  copse 
And  open  field,  through  which  the  pathway  wound, 
And  homeward  led  my  steps.     Magnificent 
The  morning  rose,  in  memorable  pomp, 
Glorious  as  e'er  I  had  beheld  —  in  front, 
The  sea  lay  laughing  at  a  distance ;  near, 


74  THE  PRELUDE. 

The  solid  mountains  shone,  bright  as  the  clouds, 

Grain-tinctured,  drenched  in  empyrean  light ; 

And  in  the  meadows  and  the  lower  grounds 

Was  all  the  sweetness  of  a  common  dawn  —  330 

Dews,  vapors,  and  the  melody  of  birds, 

And  laborers  going  forth  to  till  the  fields. 

Ah  !  need  I  say,  dear  Friend  !  that  to  the  brim 

My  heart  was  full ;  I  made  no  vows,  but  vows 

Were  then  made  for  me ;  bond  unknown  to  me 

Was  given,  that  I  should  be,  else  sinning  greatly, 

A  dedicated  Spirit.     On  I  walked 

In  thankful  blessedness,  which  yet  survives. 

Strange  rendezvous  !     My  mind  was  at  that  time 
A  parti-colored  show  of  grave  and  gay,  340 

Solid  and  light,  short-sighted  and  profound ; 
Of  inconsiderate  habits  and  sedate, 
Consorting  in  one  mansion  unreproved. 
The  worth  I  knew  of  powers  that  I  possessed, 
Though  slighted  and  too  oft  misused.     Besides, 
That  summer,  swarming  as  it  did  with  thoughts 
Transient  and  idle,  lacked  not  intervals 
When  Folly  from  the  frown  of  fleeting  Time 
Shrunk,  and  the  mind  experienced  in  herself 
Conformity  as  just  as  that  of  old  350 

To  the  end  and  written  spirit  of  God's  works, 
Whether  held  forth  in  Nature  or  in  Man, 
Through  pregnant  vision,  separate  or  conjoined. 

When  from  our  better  selves  we  have  too  long 
Been  parted  by  the  hurrying  world,  and  droop, 


BOOK  FOURTH.  75 

Sick  of  its  business,  of  its  pleasures  tired, 

How  gracious,  how  benign,  is  Solitude  ; 

How  potent  a  mere  image  of  her  sway ; 

Most  potent  when  impressed  upon  the  mind 

With  an  appropriate  human  centre  —  hermit,  360 

Deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  wilderness ; 

Votary  (in  vast  cathedral,  where  no  foot 

Is  treading,  where  no  other  face  is  seen) 

Kneeling  at  prayers,  or  watchman  on  the  top 

Of  lighthouse,  beaten  by  Atlantic  waves  ; 

Or  as  the  soul  of  that  great  Power  is  met 

Sometimes  embodied  on  a  public  road, 

When,  for  the  night  deserted,  it  assumes 

A  character  of  quiet  more  profound 

Than  pathless  wastes. 

Once,  when  those  summer  months   370 
Were  flown,  and  autumn  brought  its  annual  show 
Of  oars  with  oars  contending,  sails  with  sails, 
Upon  Winander's  spacious  breast,  it  chanced 
That  —  after  I  had  left  a  flower-decked  room 
(Whose  in-door  pastime,  lighted  up,  survived 
To  a  late  hour),  and  spirits  overwrought 
Were  making  night  do  penance  for  a  day 
Spent  in  a  round  of  strenuous  idleness  — 
My  homeward  course  led  up  a  long  ascent, 
Where  the  road's  watery  surface,  to  the  top  380 

Of  that  sharp  rising,  glittered  to  the  moon 
And  bore  the  semblance  of  another  stream 
Stealing  with  silent  lapse  to  join  the  brook 
That  murmured  in  the  vale.  All  else  was  still ; 


76  THE  PRELUDE. 

No  living  thing  appeared  in  earth  or  air, 

And,  save  the  flowing  water's  peaceful  voice, 

Sound  there  was  none  —  but,  lo  !  an  uncouth  shape, 

Shown  by  a  sudden  turning  of  the  road, 

So  near  that,  slipping  back  into  the  shade 

Of  a  thick  hawthorn,  I  could  mark  him  well,  390 

Myself  unseen.     He  was  of  stature  tall, 

A  span  above  man's  common  measure,  tall, 

Stiff,  lank,  and  upright ;  a  more  meagre  man 

Was  never  seen  before  by  night  or  day. 

Long  were  his  arms,  pallid  his  hands,  his  mouth 

Looked  ghastly  in  the  moonlight :  from  behind, 

A  mile-stone  propped  him ;  I  could  also  ken 

That  he  was  clothed  in  military  garb, 

Though  faded,  yet  entire.     Companionless, 

No  dog  attending,  by  no  staff  sustained,  400 

He  stood,  and  in  his  very  dress  appeared 

A  desolation,  a  simplicity, 

To  which  the  trappings  of  a  gaudy  world 

Make  a  strange  back-ground.     From  his  lips,  ere  long, 

Issued  low  muttered  sounds,  as  if  of  pain 

Or  some  uneasy  thought ;  yet  still  his  form 

Kept  the  same  awful  steadiness  —  at  his  feet 

His  shadow  lay,  and  moved  not.     From  self-blame 

Not  wholly  free,  I  watched  him  thus ;  at  length 

Subduing  my  heart's  specious  cowardice,  410 

I  left  the  shady  nook  where  I  had  stood 

And  hailed  him.     Slowly  from  his  resting-place 

He  rose,  and  with  a  lean  and  wasted  arm 

In  measured  gesture  lifted  to  his  head 

Returned  my  salutation  ;  then  resumed 


BOOK  FOURTH.  77 

His  station  as  before ;  and  when  I  asked 

His  history,  the  veteran,  in  reply, 

Was  neither  slow  nor  eager,  but,  unmoved, 

And  with  a  quiet  uncomplaining  voice, 

A  stately  air  of  mild  indifference,  420 

He  told  in  few  plain  words  a  soldier's  tale  — 

That  in  the  Tropic  Islands  he  had  served, 

Whence  he  had  landed  scarcely  three  weeks  past ; 

That  on  his  landing  he  had  been  dismissed, 

And  now  was  travelling  towards  his  native  home. 

This  heard,  I  said,  in  pity,  "  Come  with  me." 

He  stooped,  and  straightway  from  the  ground  took  up 

An  oaken  staff  by  me  yet  unobserved  — 

A  staff  which  must  have  dropped  from  his  slack  hand 

And  lay  till  now  neglected  in  the  grass.  430 

Though  weak  his  step  and  cautious,  he  appeared 

To  travel  without  pain,  and  I  beheld, 

With  an  astonishment  but  ill  suppressed, 

His  ghostly  figure  moving  at  my  side  ; 

Nor  could  I,  while  we  journeyed  thus,  forbear 

To  turn  from  present  hardships  to  the  past, 

And  speak  of  war,  battle,  and  pestilence, 

Sprinkling  this  talk  with  questions,  better  spared, 

On  what  he  might  himself  have  seen  or  felt. 

He  all  the  while  was  in  demeanor  calm,  440 

Concise  in  answer ;  solemn  and  sublime 

He  might  have  seemed,  but  that  in  all  he  said 

There  was  a  strange  half-absence,  as  of  one 

Knowing  too  well  the  importance  of  his  theme, 

But  feeling  it  no  longer.     Our  discourse 

Soon  ended,  and  together  on  we  passed 


78  THE  PRELUDE. 

In  silence  through  a  wood  gloomy  and  still. 

Up-turning,  then,  along  an  open  field, 

We  reached  a  cottage.     At  the  door  I  knocked, 

And  earnestly  to  charitable  care  450 

Commended  him  as  a  poor  friendless  man, 

Belated  and  by  sickness  overcome. 

Assured  that  now  the  traveller  would  repose 

In  comfort,  I  entreated  that  henceforth 

He  would  not  linger  in  the  public  ways, 

But  ask  for  timely  furtherance  and  help 

Such  as  his  state  required.     At  this  reproof, 

With  the  same  ghastly  mildness  in  his  look, 

He  said,  "  My  trust  is  in  the  God  of  Heaven, 

And  in  the  eye  of  him  who  passes  me  ! "  460 

The  cottage  door  was  speedily  unbarred. 
And  now  the  soldier  touched  his  hat  once  more 
With  his  lean  hand,  and  in  a  faltering  voice, 
Whose  tone  bespake  reviving  interests 
Till  then  unfelt,  he  thanked  me  ;  I  returned 
The  farewell  blessing  of  the  patient  man, 
And  so  we  parted.     Back  I  cast  a  look, 
And  lingered  near  the  door  a  little  space, 
Then  sought  with  quiet  heart  my  distant  home. 


BOOK   FIFTH. 


BOOKS. 

WHEN  Contemplation,  like  the  night-calm  felt 

Through  earth  and  sky,  spreads  widely,  and  sends  deep 

Into  the  soul  its  tranquillizing  power, 

Even  then  I  sometimes  grieve  for  thee,  O  Man, 

Earth's  paramount  Creature  !  not  so  much  for  woes 

That  thou  endurest ;  heavy  though  that  weight  be, 

Cloud-like  it  mounts,  or  touched  with  light  divine 

Doth  melt  away,  but  for  those  palms  achieved, 

Through  length  of  time,  by  patient  exercise 

Of  study  and  hard  thought ;  there,  there,  it  is  10 

That  sadness  finds  its  fuel.     Hitherto, 

In  progress  through  this  Verse,  my  mind  hath  looked 

Upon  the  speaking  face  of  earth  and  heaven 

As  her  prime  teacher,  intercourse  with  man 

Established  by  the  sovereign  Intellect, 

Who  through  that  bodily  image  hath  diffused, 

As  might  appear  to  the  eye  of  fleeting  time, 

A  deathless  spirit.     Thou  also,  man  !  hast  wrought, 

For  commerce  of  thy  nature  with  herself, 

Things  that  aspire  to  unconquerable  life ;  20 

And  yet  we  feel  —  we  cannot  choose  but  feel  — 


80  THE  PRELUDE. 

That  they  must  perish.     Tremblings  of  the  heart 

It  gives,  to  think  that  our  immortal  being 

No  more  shall  need  such  garments ;  and  yet  man, 

As  long  as  he  shall  be  the  child  of  earth, 

Might  almost  "  Weep  to  have  "  what  he  may  lose, 

Nor  be  himself  extinguished,  but  survive, 

Abject,  depressed,  forlorn,  disconsolate. 

A  thought  is  with  me  sometimes,  and  I  say,  — 

Should  the  whole  frame  of  earth  by  inward  throes        30 

Be  wrenched,  or  fire  come  down  from  far  to  scorch 

Her  pleasant  habitations,  and  dry  up 

Old  Ocean,  in  his  bed  left  singed  and  bare, 

Yet  would  the  living  Presence  still  subsist 

Victorious,  and  composure  would  ensue, 

And  kindlings  like  the  morning  —  presage  sure 

Of  day  returning  and  of  life  revived. 

But  all  the  meditations  of  mankind, 

Yea,  all  the  adamantine  holds  of  truth 

By  reason  built,  or  passion,  which  itself  40 

Is  highest  reason  in  a  soul  sublime ; 

The  consecrated  works  of  Bard  and  Sage, 

Sensuous  or  intellectual,  wrought  by  men, 

Twin  laborers  and  heirs  of  the  same  hopes ; 

Where  would  they  be  ?    Oh  !  why  hath  not  the  Mind 

Some  element  to  stamp  her  image  on 

In  nature  somewhat  nearer  to  her  own  ? 

Why,  gifted  with  such  powers  to  send  abroad 

Her  spirit,  must  it  lodge  in  shrines  so  frail  ? 

One  day,  when  from  my  lips  a  like  complaint  50 

Had  fallen  in  presence  of  a  studious  friend, 


BOOK  FIFTH.  81 

He  with  a  smile  made  answer,  that  in  truth 

'Twas  going  far  to  seek  disquietude  : 

But  on  the  front  of  his  reproof  confessed 

That  he  himself  had  oftentimes  given  way 

To  kindred  hauntings.     Whereupon  I  told, 

That  once  in  the  stillness  of  a  summer's  noon, 

While  I  was  seated  in  a  rocky  cave 

By  the  sea-side,  perusing,  so  it  chanced, 

The  famous  history  of  the  errant  knight  60 

Recorded  by  Cervantes,  these  same  thoughts 

Beset  me,  and  to  height  unusual  rose, 

While  listlessly  I  sate,  and,  having  closed 

The  book,  had  turned  my  eyes  towards  the  wide  sea. 

On  poetry  and  geometric  truth, 

And  their  high  privilege  of  lasting  life, 

From  all  internal  injury  exempt, 

I  mused  ;  upon  these  chiefly  :  and  at  length, 

My  senses  yielding  to  the  sultry  air, 

Sleep  seized  me,  and  I  passed  into  a  dream.  70 

I  saw  before  me  stretched  a  boundless  plain 

Of  sandy  wilderness,  all  black  and  void, 

And  as  I  looked  around,  distress  and  fear 

Came  creeping  over  me,  when  at  my  side, 

Close  at  my  side,  an  uncouth  shape  appeared 

Upon  a  dromedary,  mounted  high. 

He  seemed  an  Arab  of  the  Bedouin  tribes : 

A  lance  he  bore,  and  underneath  one  arm 

A  stone,  and  in  the  opposite  hand  a  shell 

Of  a  surpassing  brightness.     At  the  sight  80 

Much  I  rejoiced,  not  doubting  but  a  guide 

Was  present,  one  who  with  unerring  skill 


82  THE  PRELUDE. 

Would  through  the  desert  lead  me ;  and  while  yet 

I  looked  and  looked,  self-questioned  what  this  freight 

Which  the  new  comer  carried  through  the  waste 

Could  mean,  the  Arab  told  me  that  the  stone 

(To  give  it  in  the  language  of  the  dream) 

Was  "  Euclid's  Elements ;  "  and  "  This,"  said  he, 

"  Is  something  of  more  worth;  "  and  at  the  word 

Stretched  forth  the  shell,  so  beautiful  in  shape,  90 

In  color  so  resplendent,  with  command 

That  I  should  hold  it  to  my  ear.     I  did  so, 

And  heard  that  instant  in  an  unknown  tongue, 

Which  yet  I  understood,  articulate  sounds, 

A  loud  prophetic  blast  of  harmony ; 

An  Ode,  in  passion  uttered,  which  foretold 

Destruction  to  the  children  of  the  earth 

By  deluge,  now  at  hand.     No  sooner  ceased 

The  song,  than  the  Arab  with  calm  look  declared 

That  all  would  come  to  pass  of  which  the  voice          100 

Had  given  forewarning,  and  that  he  himself 

Was  going  then  to  bury  those  two  books : 

The  one  that  held  acquaintance  with  the  stars, 

And  wedded  soul  to  soul  in  purest  bond 

Of  reason,  undisturbed  by  space  or  time ; 

The  other  that  was  a  god,  yea  many  gods, 

Had  voices  more  than  all  the  winds,  with  power 

To  exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  to  soothe, 

Through  ever)1  clime,  the  heart  of  human  kind. 

While  this  was  uttering,  strange  as  it  may  seem,          no 

I  wondered  not,  although  I  plainly  saw 

The  one  to  be  a  stone,  the  other  a  shell ; 

Nor  doubted  once  but  that  they  both  were  books, 


BOOK  FIFTH.  83 

Having  a  perfect  faith  in  all  that  passed. 

Far  stronger,  now,  grew  the  desire  I  felt 

To  cleave  unto  this  man ;  but  when  I  prayed 

To  share  his  enterprise,  he  hurried  on 

Reckless  of  me  :  I  followed,  not  unseen, 

For  oftentimes  he  cast  a  backward  look, 

Grasping  his  twofold  treasure.  —  Lance  in  rest,  120 

He  rode,  I  keeping  pace  with  him  ;  and  now 

He,  to  my  fancy,  had  become  the  knight 

Whose  tale  Cervantes  tells ;  yet  not  the  knight, 

But  as  an  Arab  of  the  desert  too ; 

Of  these  was  neither,  and  was  both  at  once. 

His  countenance,  meanwhile,  grew  more  disturbed ; 

And,  looking  backwards  when  he  looked,  mine  eyes 

Saw,  over  half  the  wilderness  diffused, 

A  bed  of  glittering  light :  I  asked  the  cause  : 

"  It  is,"  said  he,  "  the  waters  of  the  deep  130 

Gathering  upon  us  ;  "  quickening  then  the  pace 

Of  the  unwieldy  creature  he  bestrode, 

He  left  me  :  I  called  after  him  aloud ; 

He  heeded  not ;  but,  with  his  twofold  charge 

Still  in  his  grasp,  before  me,  full  in  view, 

Went  hurrying  o'er  the  illimitable  waste, 

With  the  fleet  waters  of  a  drowning  world 

In  chase  of  him  ;  whereat  I  waked  in  terror, 

And  saw  the  sea  before  me,  and  the  book, 

In  which  I  had  been  reading,  at  my  side.  140 

Full  often,  taking  from  the  world  of  sleep 
This  Arab  phantom,  which  I  thus  beheld, 
This  semi-Quixote,  I  to  him  have  given 


THE  PRELUDE. 

A  substance,  fancied  him  a  living  man, 

A  gentle  dweller  in  the  desert  crazed 

By  love  and  feeling,  and  internal  thought 

Protracted  among  endless  solitudes ; 

Have  shaped  him  wandering  upon  this  quest ! 

Nor  have  I  pitied  him ;  but  rather  felt 

Reverence  was  due  to  a  being  thus  employed ;  150 

And  thought  that,  in  the  blind  and  awful  lair 

Of  such  a  madness,  reason  did  lie  couched. 

Enow  there  are  on  earth  to  take  in  charge 

Their  wives,  their  children,  and  their  virgin  loves, 

Or  whatsoever  else  the  heart  holds  dear ; 

Enow  to  stir  for  these ;  yea,  will  I  say, 

Contemplating  in  soberness  the  approach 

Of  an  event  so  dire,  by  signs  in  earth 

Or  heaven  made  manifest,  that  I  could  share 

That  maniac's  fond  anxiety,  and  go  160 

Upon  like  errand.     Oftentimes  at  least 

Me  hath  such  strong  entrancement  overcome, 

When  I  have  held  a  volume  in  my  hand, 

Poor  earthly  casket  of  immortal  verse, 

Shakespeare,  or  Milton,  laborers  divine  ! 

Great  and  benign,  indeed,  must  be  the  power 
Of  living  nature,  which  could  thus  so  long 
Detain  me  from  the  best  of  other  guides 
And  dearest  helpers,  left  unthanked,  unpraised, 
Even  in  the  time  of  lisping  infancy ;  170 

And  later  down,  in  prattling  childhood  even, 
While  I  was  travelling  back  among  those  days 
How  could  I  ever  play  an  ingrate's  part? 


BOOK  FIFTH.  85 

Once  more  should  I  have  made  those  bowers  resound, 

By  intermingling  strains  of  thankfulness 

With  their  own  thoughtless  melodies  ;  at  least 

It  might  have  well  beseemed  me  to  repeat 

Some  simply  fashioned  tale,  to  tell  again, 

In  slender  accents  of  sweet  verse,  some  tale 

That  did  bewitch  me  then,  and  soothes  me  now.        180 

O  Friend  !  O  Poet !  brother  of  my  soul, 

Think  not  that  I  could  pass  along  untouched 

By  these  remembrances.     Yet  wherefore  speak? 

Why  call  upon  a  few  weak  words  to  say 

What  is  already  written  in  the  hearts 

Of  all  that  breathe  ?  —  what  in  the  path  of  all 

Drops  daily  from  the  tongue  of  every  child, 

Wherever  man  is  found  ?     The  trickling  tear 

Upon  the  cheek  of  listening  Infancy 

Proclaims  it,  and  the  insuperable  look  190 

That  drinks  as  if  it  never  could  be  full. 

That  portion  of  my  story  I  shall  leave 
There  registered  :  whatever  else  of  power 
Or  pleasure  sown,  or  fostered  thus,  may  be 
Peculiar  to  myself,  let  that  remain 
Where  still  it  works,  though  hidden  from  all  search 
Among  the  depths  of  time.     Yet  it  is  just 
That  here,  in  memory  of  all  books  which  lay 
Their  sure  foundations  in  the  heart  of  man, 
Whether  by  native  prose,  or  numerous  verse,  200 

That  in  the  name  of  all  inspired  souls  — 
From  Homer  the  great  Thunderer,  from  the  voice 
That  roars  along  the  bed  of  Jewish  song, 


86  THE  PRELUDE. 

And  that  more  varied  and  elaborate, 

Those  trumpet-tones  of  harmony  that  shake 

Our  shores  in  England,  —  from  those  loftiest  notes 

Down  to  the  low  and  wren-like  warblings,  made 

For  cottagers  and  spinners  at  the  wheel, 

And  sun-burnt  travellers  resting  their  tired  limbs, 

Stretched  under  wayside  hedge-rows,  ballad  tunes,     210 

Food  for  the  hungry  ears  of  little  ones, 

And  of  old  men  who  have  survived  their  joys  — 

Tis  just  that  in  behalf  of  these,  the  works, 

And  of  the  men  that  framed  them,  whether  known 

Or  sleeping  nameless  in  their  scattered  graves, 

That  I  should  here  assert  their  rights,  attest 

Their  honors,  and  should,  once  for  all,  pronounce 

Their  benediction ;  speak  of  them  as  Powers 

Forever  to  be  hallowed ;  only  less, 

For  what  we  are  and  what  we  may  become,  220 

Than  Nature's  self,  which  is  the  breath  of  God, 

Or  His  pure  Word  by  miracle  revealed. 

Rarely  and  with  reluctance  would  I  stoop 
To  transitory  themes ;  yet  I  rejoice, 
And,  by  these  thoughts  admonished,  will  pour  out 
Thanks  with  uplifted  heart,  that  I  was  reared 
Safe  from  an  evil  which  these  days  have  laid 
Upon  the  children  of  the  land,  a  pest 
That  might  have  dried  me  up,  body  and  soul. 
This  verse  is  dedicate  to  Nature's  self,  230 

And  things  that  teach  as  Nature  teaches :  then, 
Oh  !  where  had  been  the  Man,  the  Poet  where, 
Where  had  we  been,  we  two,  beloved  Friend  ! 


BOOK  FIFTH.  87 

If  in  the  season  of  imperilous  choice, 

In  lieu  of  wandering,  as  we  did,  through  vales 

Rich  with  indigenous  produce,  open  ground 

Of  Fancy,  happy  pastures  ranged  at  will, 

We  had  been  followed,  hourly  watched  and  noosed 

Each  in  his  several  melancholy  walk 

Stringed  like  a  poor  man's  heifer  at  its  feed,  240 

Led  through  the  lanes  in  forlorn  servitude ; 

Or  rather  like  a  stalled  ox  debarred 

From  touch  of  growing  grass,  that  may  not  taste 

A  flower  till  it  have  yielded  up  its  sweets 

A  prelibation  to  the  mower's  scythe. 

Behold  the  parent  hen  amid  her  brood, 
Though  fledged  and  feathered,  and  well  pleased  to  part 
And  straggle  from  her  presence,  still  a  brood, 
And  she  herself  from  the  maternal  bond 
Still  undischarged  ;  yet  doth  she  little  more  250 

Than  move  with  them  in  tenderness  and  love, 
A  centre  to  the  circle  which  they  make ; 
And  now  and  then,  alike  from  need  of  theirs 
And  call  of  her  own  natural  appetites, 
She  scratches,  ransacks  up  the  earth  for  food, 
Which  they  partake  at  pleasure.     Early  died 
My  honored  Mother,  she  who  was  the  heart 
And  hinge  of  all  our  learnings  and  our  loves  : 
She  left  us  destitute,  and,  as  we  might, 
Trooping  together.     Little  suits  it  me  260 

To  break  upon  the  sabbath  of  her  rest 
With  any  thought  that  looks  at  others'  blame ; 
Nor  would  I  praise  her  but  in  perfect  love. 


88  THE  PRELUDE. 

Hence  am  I  checked  :  but  let  me  boldly  say, 

In  gratitude,  and  for  the  sake  of  truth, 

Unheard  by  her,  that  she,  not  falsely  taught, 

Fetching  her  goodness  rather  from  times  past 

Than  shaping  novelties  for  times  to  come, 

Had  no  presumption,  no  such  jealousy, 

Nor  did  by  habit  of  her  thoughts  mistrust,  270 

Our  nature,  but  had  virtual  faith,  that  He 

Who  fills  the  mother's  breast  with  innocent  milk 

Doth  also  for  our  nobler  part  provide, 

Under  His  great  correction  and  control, 

As  innocent  instincts,  and  as  innocent  food ; 

Or  draws  for  minds  that  are  left  free  to  trust 

In  the  simplicities  of  opening  life 

Sweet  honey  out  of  spumed  or  dreaded  weeds. 

This  was  her  creed,  and  therefore  she  was  pure 

From  anxious  fear  of  error  or  mishap,  280 

And  evil,  overweeningly  so  called ; 

Was  not  puffed  up  by  false  unnatural  hopes, 

Nor  selfish  with  unnecessary  cares, 

Nor  with  impatience  from  the  season  asked 

More  than  its  timely  produce ;  rather  loved 

The  hours  for  what  they  are,  than  from  regard 

Glanced  on  their  promises  in  restless  pride. 

Such  was  she  —  not  from  faculties  more  strong 

Than  others  have,  but  from  the  times,  perhaps, 

And  spot  in  which  she  lived,  and  through  a  grace      290 

Of  modest  meekness,  simple-mindedness, 

A  heart  that  found  benignity  and  hope, 

Being  itself  benign. 

My  drift 


BOOK  FIFTH.  89 

Is  scarcely  obvious  :  but,  that  common  sense 

May  try  this  modern  system  by  its  fruits, 

Leave  let  me  take  to  place  before  her  sight 

A  specimen  portrayed  with  faithful  hand. 

Full  early  trained  to  worship  seemliness, 

This  model  of  a  child  is  never  known 

To  mix  in  quarrels  ;  that  were  far  beneath  300 

Its  dignity,  with  gifts  he  bubbles  o'er 

As  generous  as  a  fountain  ;  selfishness 

May  not  come  near  him,  nor  the  little  throng 

Of  flitting  pleasures  tempt  him  from  his  path ; 

The  wandering  beggars  propagate  his  name, 

Dumb  creatures  find  him  tender  as  a  nun, 

And  natural  or  supernatural  fear, 

Unless  it  leap  upon  him  in  a  dream, 

Touches  him  not.     To  enhance  the  wonder,  see 

How  arch  his  notices,  how  nice  his  sense  310 

Of  the  ridiculous  ;  not  blind  is  he 

To  the  broad  follies  of  the  licensed  world, 

Yet  innocent  himself  withal,  though  shrewd. 

And  can  read  lectures  upon  innocence  ; 

A  miracle  of  scientific  lore, 

Ships  he  can  guide  across  the  pathless  sea, 

And  tell  you  all  their  cunning ;  he  can  read 

The  inside  of  the  earth,  and  spell  the  stars ; 

He  knows  the  policies  of  foreign  lands, 

Can  string  you  names  of  districts,  cities,  towns,  320 

The  whole  world  over,  tight  as  beads  of  dew 

Upon  a  gossamer  thread  ;  he  sifts,  he  weighs, 

All  things  are  put  to  question ;  he  must  live 

Knowing  that  he  grows  wiser  every  day 


90  THE  PRELUDE. 

Or  else  not  live  at  all,  and  seeing  too 

Each  little  drop  of  wisdom  as  it  falls 

Into  the  dimpling  cistern  of  his  heart : 

For  this  unnatural  growth  the  trainer  blame, 

Pity  the  tree.  —  Poor  human  vanity, 

Wert  thou  extinguished,  little  would  be  left  330 

Which  he  could  truly  love ;  but  how  escape  ? 

For,  ever  as  a  thought  of  purer  birth 

Rises  to  lead  him  toward  a  better  clime, 

Some  intermeddler  still  is  on  the  watch 

To  drive  him  back,  and  pound  him,  like  a  stray, 

Within  the  pinfold  of  his  own  conceit. 

Meanwhile  old  grandame  earth  is  grieved  to  find 

The  playthings,  which  her  love  designed  for  him, 

Unthought  of:  in  their  woodland  beds  the  flowers 

Weep,  and  the  river  sides  are  all  forlorn.  340 

Oh  !  give  us  once  again  the  wishing  cap 

Of  Fortunatus,  and  the  invisible  coat 

Of  Jack  the  Giant-killer,  Robin  Hood, 

And  Sabra  in  the  forest  with  St.  George  ! 

The  child,  whose  love  is  here,  at  least,  doth  reap 

One  precious  gain,  that  he  forgers  himself. 

These  mighty  workmen  of  our  later  age, 
Who,  with  a  broad  highway,  have  overbridged 
The  forward  chaos  of  futurity, 

Tamed  to  their  bidding ;  they  who  have  the  skill       350 
To  manage  books,  and  things,  and  make  them  act 
On  infant  minds  as  surely  as  the  sun 
Deals  with  a  flower ;    the  keepers  of  our  time, 
The  guides  and  wardens  of  our  faculties, 


BOOK  FIFTH.  91 

Sages  who  in  their  prescience  would  control 

All  accidents,  and  to  the  very  road 

Which  they  have  fashioned  would  confine  us  down, 

Like  engines ;  when  will  their  presumption  learn, 

That  in  the  unreasoning  progress  of  the  world 

A  wiser  spirit  is  at  work  for  us,  360 

A  better  eye  than  theirs,  most  prodigal 

Of  blessings,  and  most  studious  of  our  good, 

Even  in  what  seem  our  most  unfruitful  hours? 

There  was  a  Boy  :  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs 
And  islands  of  Winander  !  —  many  a  time 
At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 
To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone 
Beneath  the  trees  or  by  the  glimmering  lake, 
And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands  370 

Pressed  closely  palm  to  palm,  and  to  his  mouth 
Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument, 
Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls, 
That  they  might  answer  him ;  and  they  would  shout 
Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again, 
Responsive  to  his  call  with  quivering  peals, 
And  long  halloos  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud, 
Redoubled  and  redoubled,  concourse  wild 
Of  jocund  din;  and,  when  a  lengthened  pause 
Of  silence  came  and  baffled  his  best  skill,  380 

Then  sometimes,  in  that  silence  while  he  hung 
Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 
Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 
Of  mountain  torrents ;  or  the  visible  scene 


92  THE  PRELUDE. 

Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind, 

With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 

Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven,  received 

Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

This  Boy  was  taken  from  his  mates,  and  died 
In  childhood,  ere  he  was  full  twelve  years  old.  390 

Fair  is  the  spot,  most  beautiful  the  vale, 
Where  he  was  born ;  the  grassy  churchyard  hangs 
Upon  a  slope  above  the  village  school, 
And  through  that  churchyard  when  my  way  has  led 
On  summer  evenings,  I  believe  that  there 
A  long  half  hour  together  I  have  stood 
Mute,  looking  at  the  grave  in  which  he  lies  ! 
Even  now  appears  before  the  mind's  clear  eye 
That  self-same  village  church ;  I  see  her  sit 
(The  throned  Lady  whom  erewhile  we  hailed)  400 

On  her  green  hill,  forgetful  of  this  Boy 
Who  slumbers  at  her  feet,  —  forgetful  too, 
Of  all  her  silent  neighborhood  of  graves, 
And  listening  only  to  the  gladsome  sounds 
That  from  the  rural  school  ascending,  play 
Beneath  her  and  about  her!     May  she  long 
Behold  a  race  of  young  ones  like  to  those 
With  whom  I  herded  !  —  (easily,  indeed, 
We  might  have  fed  upon  a  fatter  soil 
Of  arts  and  letters  —  but  be  that  forgiven)  —  410 

A  race  of  real  children  ;  not  too  wise, 
Too  learned,  or  too  good ;  but  wanton,  fresh, 
And  bandied  up  and  down  by  love  and  hate ; 
Not  unresentful  where  self-justified ; 


BOOK  FIFTH.  93 

Fierce,  moody,  patient,  venturous,  modest,  shy ; 

Mad  at  their  sports  like  withered  leaves  in  winds ; 

Though  doing  wrong  and  suffering,  and  full  oft 

Bending  beneath  our  life's  mysterious  weight 

Of  pain,  and  doubt,  and  fear,  yet  yielding  not 

In  happiness  to  the  happiest  upon  earth.  420 

Simplicity  in  habits,  truth  in  speech, 

Be  these  the  daily  strengtheners  of  their  minds ; 

May  books  and  Nature  be  their  early  joy  ! 

And  knowledge,  rightly  honored  with  that  name  — 

Knowledge  not  purchased  by  the  loss  of  power  ! 

Well  do  I  call  to  mind  the  very  week 
When  I  was  first  intrusted  to  the  care 
Of  that  sweet  Valley  ;  when  its  paths,  its  shores, 
And  brooks  were  like  a  dream  of  novelty 
To  my  half-infant  thoughts  ;  that  very  week,  430 

While  I  was  roving  up  and  down  alone, 
Seeking  I  knew  not  what,  I  chanced  to  cross 
One  of  those  open  fields,  which,  shaped  like  ears, 
Make  green  peninsulas  on  Esthwaite's  Lake  : 
Twilight  was  coming  on,  yet  through  the  gloom 
Appeared  distinctly  on  the  opposite  shore 
A  heap  of  garments,  as  if  left  by  one 
Who  might  have  there  been  bathing.     Long  I  watched, 
But  no  one  owned  them ;  meanwhile  the  calm  lake 
Grew  dark  with  all  the  shadows  on  its  breast,  440 

And,  now  and  then,  a  fish  up-leaping  snapped 
The  breathless  stillness.     The  succeeding  day, 
Those  unclaimed  garments  telling  a  plain  tale 
Drew  to  the  spot  an  anxious  crowd ;  some  looked 


94  THE  PRELUDE. 

In  passive  expectation  from  the  shore, 

While  from  a  boat  others  hung  o'er  the  deep, 

Sounding  with  grappling  irons  and  long  poles. 

At  last,  the  dead  man,  'mid  that  beauteous  scene 

Of  trees  and  hills  and  water,  bolt  upright 

Rose,  with  his  ghastly  face,  a  spectre  shape  450 

Of  terror ;  yet  no  soul-debasing  fear, 

Young  as  I  was,  a  child  not  nine  years  old, 

Possessed  me,  for  my  inner  eye  had  seen 

Such  sights  before,  among  the  shining  streams 

Of  faery  land,  the  forest  of  romance. 

Their  spirit  hallowed  the  sad  spectacle 

With  decoration  of  ideal  grace  ; 

A  dignity,  a  smoothness,  like  the  works 

Of  Grecian  art,  and  purest  poesy. 

A  precious  treasure  had  I  long  possessed,  460 

A  little  yellow,  canvas-covered  book, 
A  slender  abstract  of  the  Arabian  tales ; 
And,  from  companions  in  a  new  abode, 
When  first  I  learnt  that  this  dear  prize  of  mine 
Was  but  a  block  hewn  from  a  mighty  quarry — - 
That  there  were  four  large  volumes,  laden  all 
With  kindred  matter,  'twas  to  me,  in  truth, 
A  promise  scarcely  earthly.     Instantly, 
With  one  not  richer  than  myself,  I  made 
A  covenant  that  each  should  lay  aside  470 

The  moneys  he  possessed,  and  hoard  up  more, 
Till  our  joint  savings  had  amassed  enough 
To  make  this  book  our  own.     Through  several  months, 
In  spite  of  all  temptation,  we  preserved 


BOOK  FIFTH.  95 

Religiously  that  vow  ;  but  firmness  failed, 
Nor  were  we  ever  masters  of  our  wish. 

And  when  thereafter  to  my  father's  house 
The  holidays  returned  me,  there  to  find 
That  golden  store  of  books  which  I  had  left, 
What  joy  was  mine  !     How  often  in  the  course  480 

Of  those  glad  respites,  though  a  soft  west  wind 
Ruffled  the  waters  to  the  angler's  wish, 
For  a  whole  day  together,  have  I  lain 
Down  by  thy  side,  O  Derwent !  murmuring  stream, 
On  the  hot  stones,  and  in  the  glaring  sun, 
And  there  have  read,  devouring  as  I  read, 
Defrauding  the  day's  glory,  desperate  ! 
Till  with  a  sudden  bound  of  smart  reproach, 
Such  as  an  idler  deals  with  in  his  shame, 
I  to  the  sport  betook  myself  again.  490 

A  gracious  spirit  o'er  this  earth  presides, 
And  o'er  the  heart  of  man ;  invisibly 
It  comes,  to  works  of  unreproved  delight, 
And  tendency  benign,  directing  those 
Who  care  not,  know  not,  think  not  what  they  do. 
The  tales  that  charm  away  the  wakeful  night 
In  Araby,  romances  ;  legends  penned 
For  solace  by  dim  light  of  monkish  lamps ; 
Fictions,  for  ladies  of  their  love,  devised 
By  youthful  squires  ;  adventures  endless,  spun  500 

By  the  dismantled  warrior  in  old  age, 
Out  of  the  bowels  of  those  very  schemes 
In  which  his  youth  did  first  extravagate ; 


%  THE  PRELUDE. 

These  spread  like  day,  and  something  in  the  shape 

Of  these  will  live  till  man  shall  be  no  more. 

Dumb  yearnings,  hidden  appetites,  are  ours, 

And  they  must  have  their  food.     Our  childhood  sits, 

Our  simple  childhood,  sits  upon  a  throne 

That  hath  more  power  than  all  the  elements. 

I  guess  not  what  this  tells  of  Being  past,  510 

Nor  what  it  augurs  of  the  life  to  come ; 

But  so  it  is,  and,  in  that  dubious  hour, 

That  twilight  when  we  first  begin  to  see 

This  dawning  earth,  to  recognize,  expect, 

And,  in  the  long  probation  that  ensues, 

The  time  of  trial,  ere  we  learn  to  live 

In  reconcilement  with  our  stinted  powers ; 

To  endure  this  state  of  meagre  vassalage, 

Unwilling  to  forego,  confess,  submit, 

Uneasy  and  unsettled,  yoke-fellows  520 

To  custom,  mettlesome,  and  not  yet  tamed 

And  humbled  down ;  oh  !  then  we  feel,  we  feel, 

We  know  where  we  have  friends.     Ye  dreamers,  then, 

Forgers  of  daring  tales  !  we  bless  you  then, 

Impostors,  drivellers,  dotards,  as  the  ape 

Philosophy  will  call  you  :  then  we  feel 

With  what  and  how  great  might  ye  are  in  league, 

Who  make  our  wish,  our  power,  our  thought  a  deed, 

An  empire,  a  possession,  —  ye  whom  time 

And  seasons  serve  ;  all  Faculties  to  whom  530 

Earth  crouches,  the  elements  are  potter's  clay, 

Space  like  a  heaven  filled  up  With  northern  lights, 

Here,  nowhere,  there,  and  everywhere  at  once. 


BOOK  FIFTH.  97 

Relinquishing  this  lofty  eminence 
For  ground,  though  humbler,  not  the  less  a  tract 
Of  the  same  isthmus,  which  our  spirits  cross 
In  progress  from  their  native  continent 
To  earth  and  human  life,  the  Song  might  dwell 
On  that  delightful  time  of  growing  youth, 
When  craving  for  the  marvellous  gives  way  540 

To  strengthening  love  for  things  that  we  have  seen ; 
When  sober  truth  and  steady  sympathies, 
Offered  to  notice  by  less  daring  pens, 
Take  firmer  hold  of  us,  and  words  themselves 
Move  us  with  conscious  pleasure. 

I  am  sad 

At  thought  of  rapture  now  forever  flown ; 
Almost  to  tears  I  sometimes  could  be  sad 
To  think  of,  to  read  over,  many  a  page, 
Poems  withal  of  name,  which  at  that  time 
Did  never  fail  to  entrance  me,  and  are  now  550 

Dead  in  my  eyes,  dead  as  a  theatre 
Fresh  emptied  of  spectators.     Twice  five  years 
Or  less  I  might  have  seen,  when  first  my  mind 
With  conscious  pleasure  opened  to  the  charm 
Of  words  in  tuneful  order,  found  them  sweet 
For  their  own  sakes,  a  passion,  and  a  power ; 
And  phrases  pleased  me  chosen  for  delight, 
For  pomp,  or  love.     Oft  in  the  public  roads 
Yet  unfrequented,  while  the  morning  light 
Was  yellowing  the  hill  tops,  I  went  abroad  560 

With  a  dear  friend,  and  for  the  better  part 
Of  two  delightful  hours  we  strolled  along 
By  the  still  borders  of  the  misty  lake, 


98  THE  PRELUDE. 

Repeating  favorite  verses  with  one  voice, 

Or  conning  more,  as  happy  as  the  birds 

That  round  us  chaunted.     Well  might  we  be  glad, 

Lifted  above  the  ground  by  airy  fancies, 

More  bright  than  madness  or  the  dreams  of  wine ; 

And,  though  full  oft  the  objects  of  our  love 

Were  false,  and  in  their  splendor  overwrought,  570 

Yet  was  there  surely  then  no  vulgar  power 

Working  within  us,  —  nothing  less,  in  truth, 

Than  that  most  noble  attribute  of  man, 

Though  yet  untutored  and  inordinate, 

That  wish  for  something  loftier,  more  adorned, 

Than  is  the  common  aspect,  daily  garb, 

Of  human  life.     What  wonder,  then,  if  sounds 

Of  exultation  echoed  through  the  groves  ! 

For  images,  and  sentiments,  and  words, 

And  everything  encountered  or  pursued  580 

In  that  delicious  world  of  poesy, 

Kept  holiday,  a  never-ending  show, 

With  music,  incense,  festival,  and  flowers  ! 

Here  must  we  pause  :  this  only  let  me  add, 
From  heart  experience,  and  in  humblest  sense 
Of  modesty,  that  he,  who  in  his  youth 
A  daily  wanderer  among  woods  and  fields 
With  living  Nature  hath  been  intimate, 
Not  only  in  that  raw  unpractised  time 
Is  stirred  to  ecstasy,  as  others  are,  590 

By  glittering  verse  ;  but  further,  doth  receive, 
In  measure  only  dealt  out  to  himself, 
Knowledge  and  increase  of  enduring  joy 


BOOK  FIFTH.  99 

From  the  great  Nature  that  exists  in  works 

Of  mighty  Poets.     Visionary  power 

Attends  the  motions  of  the  viewless  winds, 

Embodied  in  the  mystery  of  words  : 

There,  darkness  makes  abode,  and  all  the  host 

Of  shadowy  things  work  endless  changes,  —  there, 

As  in  a  mansion  like  their  proper  home,  600 

Even  forms  and  substances  are  circumfused 

By  that  transparent  veil  with  light  divine, 

And,  through  the  turnings  intricate  of  verse, 

Present  themselves  as  objects  recognized, 

In  flashes,  and  with  glory  not  their  own. 


BOOK  SIXTH. 


CAMBRIDGE  AND   THE  ALPS. 

THE  leaves  were  fading  when  to  Esthwaite's  banks 

And  the  simplicities  of  cottage  life 

I  bade  farewell ;  and,  one  among  the  youth 

Who,  summoned  by  that  season,  reunite 

As  scattered  birds  troop  to  the  fowler's  lure, 

Went  back  to  Granta's  cloisters,  not  so  prompt 

Or  eager,  though  as  gay  and  undepressed 

In  mind,  as  when  I  thence  had  taken  flight 

A  few  short  months  before.     I  turned  my  face 

Without  repining  from  the  coves  and  heights 

Clothed  in  the  sunshine  of  the  withering  fern ; 

Quitted,  not  loth,  the  mild  magnificence 

Of  calmer  lakes  and  louder  streams  ;  and  you, 

Frank-hearted  maids  of  rocky  Cumberland, 

You  and  your  not  unwelcome  days  of  mirth, 

Relinquished,  and  your  nights  of  revelry, 

And  in  my  own  unlovely  cell  sate  down 

In  lightsome  mood  —  such  privilege  has  youth 

That  cannot  take  long  leave  of  pleasant  thoughts. 

The  bonds  of  indolent  society^. 
Relaxing  in  their  hold,  henceforth  I  lived 


BOOK  SIXTH.  101 

More  to  myself.     Two  winters  may  be  passed 

Without  a  separate  notice  :  many  books 

Were  skimmed,  devoured,  or  studiously  perused, 

But  with  no  settled  plan.     I  was  detached 

Internally  from  academic  cares  ; 

Yet  independent  study  seemed  a  course 

Of  hardy  disobedience  toward  friends 

And  kindred,  proud  rebellion  and  unkind. 

This  spurious  virtue,  rather  let  it  bear  30 

A  name  it  now  deserves,  this  cowardice, 

Gave  treacherous  sanction  to  that  over-love 

Of  freedom  which  encouraged  me  to  turn 

From  regulations  even  of  my  own 

As  from  restraints  and  bonds.     Yet  who  can  tell — 

Who  knows  what  thus  may  have  been  gained,  both  then 

And  at  a  later  season,  or  preserved  ; 

What  love  of  nature,  what  original  strength 

Of  contemplation,  what  intuitive  truths 

The  deepest  and  the  best,  what  keen  research,  40 

Unbiassed,  unbewildered,  and  unawed? 

The  Poet's  soul  was  with  me  at  that  time  : 
Sweet  meditations,  the  still  overflow 
Of  present  happiness,  while  future  years 
Lacked  not  anticipations,  tender  dreams, 
No  few  of  which  have  since  been  realized  ; 
And  some  remain,  hopes  for  my  future  life. 
Four  years  and  thirty,  told  this  very  week, 
Have  I  been  now  a  sojourner  on  earth, 
By  sorrow  not  unsmitten  ;  yet  for  me  50 

Life's  morning  radiance  hath  not  left  the  hills, 


102  THE  PRELUDE. 

Her  dew  is  on  the  flowers.    Those  were  the  days 

Which  also  first  emboldened  me  to  trust 

With  firmness,  hitherto  but  slightly  touched 

By  such  a  daring  thought,  that  I  might  leave 

Some  monument  behind  me  which  pure  hearts 

Should  reverence.     The  instinctive  humbleness, 

Maintained  even  by  the  very  name  and  thought 

Of  printed  books  and  authorship,  began 

To  melt  away ;  and  further,  the  dread  awe  60 

Of  mighty  names  was  softened  down  and  seemed 

Approachable,  admitting  fellowship 

Of  modest  sympathy.     Such  aspect  now, 

Though  not  familiarly,  my  mind  put  on, 

Content  to  observe,  to  achieve,  and  to  enjoy. 

All  winter  long,  whenever  free  to  choose, 
Did  I  by  night  frequent  the  College  grove 
And  tributary  walks ;  the  last,  and  oft 
The  only  one,  who  had  been  lingering  there 
Through  hours  of  silence,  till  the  porter's  bell,  70 

A  punctual  follower  on  the  stroke  of  nine, 
Rang  with  its  blunt  unceremonious  voice, 
Inexorable  summons  !     Lofty  elms, 
Inviting  shades  or  opportune  recess, 
Bestowed  composure  on  a  neighborhood 
Unpeaceful  in  itself.     A  single  tree 
With  sinuous  trunk,  boughs  exquisitely  wreathed, 
Grew  there  ;  an  ash  which  WTinter  for  himself 
Decked  out  with  pride,  and  with  outlandish  grace : 
Up  from  the  ground,  and  almost  to  the  top,  80 

The  trunk  and  every  master  branch  were  green 


BOOK  SIXTH.  103 

With  clustering  ivy,  and  the  lightsome  twigs 

And  outer  spray  profusely  tipped  with  seeds 

That  hung  in  yellow  tassels,  while  the  air 

Stirred  them,  not  voiceless.     Often  have  I  stood 

Foot-bound  uplooking  at  this  lovely  tree 

Beneath  a  frosty  moon.     The  hemisphere 

Of  magic  fiction,  verse  of  mine  perchance 

May  never  tread  ;  but  scarcely  Spenser's  self 

Could  have  more  tranquil  visions  in  his  youth,  90 

Or  could  more  bright  appearances  create 

Of  human  forms  with  superhuman  powers, 

Than  I  beheld  loitering  on  calm  clear  nights 

Alone,  beneath  this  fairy  work  of  earth. 

V 

On  the  vague  reading  of  a  truant  youth 
'Twere  idle  to  descant.     My  inner  judgment 
Not  seldom  differed  from  my  taste  in  books, 
As  if  it  appertained  to  another  mind, 
And  yet  the  books  which  then  I  valued  most 
Are  dearest  to  me  now ;  for,  having  scanned,  100 

Not  heedlessly,  the  laws,  and  watched  the  forms 
Of  Nature,  in  that  knowledge  I  possessed 
A  standard,  often  usefully  applied, 
Even  when  unconsciously,  to  things  removed 
From  a  familiar  sympathy.  —  In  fine, 
I  was  a  better  judge  of  thoughts  than  words, 
Misled  in  estimating  words,  not  only 
By  common  inexperience  of  youth, 
But  by  the  trade  in  classic  niceties, 
The  dangerous  craft  of  culling  term  and  phrase  no 

From  languages  that  want  the  living  voice 


104  THE  PRELUDE. 

To  carry  meaning  to  the  natural  heart ; 
To  tell  us  what  is  passion,  what  is  truth, 
What  reason,  with  simplicity  and  sense. 

Yet  may  we  not  entirely  overlook 
The  pleasure  gathered  from  the  rudiments 
Of  geometric  science.     Though  advanced 
In  these  inquiries,  with  regret  I  speak, 
No  farther  than  the  threshold,  there  I  found 
Both  elevation  and  composed  delight :  120 

With  Indian  awe  and  wonder,  ignorance  pleased 
With  its  own  struggles,  did  I  meditate 
On  the  relation  those  abstractions  bear 
To  Nature's  laws,  and  by  what  process  led, 
Those  immaterial  agents  bowed  their  heads 
Duly  to  serve  the  mind  of  earth-born  man  ; 
From  star  to  star,  from  kindred  sphere  to  sphere, 
From  system  on  to  system  without  end. 

More  frequently  from  the  same  source  I  drew 
A  pleasure  quiet  and  profound,  a  sense  130 

Of  permanent  and  universal  sway, 
And  paramount  belief:  there,  recognized 
A  type,  for  finite  natures,  of  the  one 
Supreme  Existence,  the  surpassing  life 
Which  —  to  the  boundaries  of  space  and  time, 
Of  melancholy  space  and  doleful  time, 
Superior  and  incapable  of  change, 
Nor  touched  by  welterings  of  passion  —  is, 
And  hath  the  name  of,  God.     Transcendent  peace 
And  silence  did  await  upon  these  thoughts  140 

That  were  a  frequent  comfort  to  my  youth. 


BOOK  SIXTH.  105 

"Tis  told  by  one  whom  stormy  waters  threw, 
With  fellow-sufferers  by  the  shipwreck  spared, 
Upon  a  desert  coast,  that  having  brought 
To  land  a  single  volume,  saved  by  chance, 
A  treatise  of  Geometry,  he  wont, 
Although  of  food  and  clothing  destitute, 
And  beyond  common  wretchedness  depressed, 
To  part  from  company  and  take  this  book 
(Then  first  a  self-taught  pupil  in  its  truths)  15° 

To  spots  remote,  and  draw  his  diagrams 
With  a  long  staff  upon  the  sand,  and  thus 
Did  oft  beguile  his  sorrow,  and  almost 
Forget  his  feeling  :  so  (if  like  effect 
From  the  same  cause  produced,  'mid  outward  things 
So  different,  may  rightly  be  compared), 
So  was  it  then  with  me,  and  so  will  be 
With  Poets  ever.     Mighty  is  the  charm 
Of  those  abstractions  to  a  mind  beset 
With  images  and  haunted  by  herself,  160 

And  specially  delightful  unto  me 
Was  that  clear 'synthesis  built  up  aloft 
So  gracefully ;  even  then  when  it  appeared 
Not  more  than  a  mere  plaything,  or  a  toy 
To  sense  embodied  :  not  the  thing  it  is 
In  verity,  an  independent  world, 
Created  out  of  pure  intelligence. 

Such  dispositions  then  were  mine  unearned 
By  aught,  I  fear,  of  genuine  desert  — 
Mine,  through  heaven's  grace  and  inborn  aptitudes.   17° 
And  not  to  leave  the  story  of  that  time 


106  THE  PRELUDE. 

Imperfect,  with  these  habits  must  be  joined 

Moods  melancholy,  fits  of  spleen,  that  loved 

A  pensive  sky,  sad  days,  and  piping  winds, 

The  twilight  more  than  dawn,  autumn  than  spring ; 

A  treasured  and  luxurious  gloom  of  choice 

And  inclination  mainly,  and  the  mere 

Redundancy  of  youth's  contentedness. 

—  To  time  thus  spent,  add  multitudes  of  hours 

Pilfered  away,  by  what  the  Bard  who  sang  180 

Of  the  Enchanter  Indolence  hath  called 

"  Good-natured  lounging,"  and  behold  a  map 

Of  my  collegiate  life  —  far  less  intense 

Than  duty  called  for,  or,  without  regard 

To  duty,  might  have  sprung  up  of  itself 

By  change  of  accidents,  or  even,  to  speak 

Without  unkindness,  in  another  place. 

Yet  why  take  refuge  in  that  plea  ?  —  the  fault 

This  I  repeat,  was  mine ;  mine  be  the  blame. 

In  summer,  making  quest  for  works  of  art,  190 

Or  scenes  renowned  for  beauty,  I  explored 
That  streamlet  whose  blue  current  works  its  way 
Beneath  romantic  Dovedale's  spiry  rocks ; 
Pried  into  Yorkshire  dales,  or  hidden  tracts 
Of  my  own  native  region,  and  was  blest 
Between  these  sundry  wanderings  with  a  joy 
Above  all  joys,  that  seemed  another  morn 
Risen  on  mid  noon  ;  blest  with  the  presence,  Friend  ! 
Of  that  sole  Sister,  her  who  hath  been  long 
Dear  to  thee  also,  thy  true  friend  and  mine,  200 

Now,  after  separation  desolate, 


BOOK  SIXTH.  107 

Restored  to  me  —  such  absence  that  she  seemed 

A  gift  then  first  bestowed.     The  varied  banks 

Of  Emont,  hitherto  unnamed  in  song, 

And  that  monastic  castle,  'mid  tall  trees, 

Low  standing  by  the  margin  of  the  stream, 

A  mansion  visited  (as  fame  reports) 

By  Sidney,  where,  in  sight  of  our  Helvellyn, 

Or  stormy  Cross-fell,  snatches  he  might  pen 

Of  his  Arcadia,  by  fraternal  love  210 

Inspired  ;  —  that  river  and  those  mouldering  towers 

Have  seen  us  side  by  side,  when,  having  clomb 

The  darksome  windings  of  a  broken  stair, 

And  crept  along  a  ridge  of  fractured  wall, 

Not  without  trembling,  we  in  safety  looked 

Forth,  through  some  Gothic  window's  open  space, 

And  gathered  with  one  mind  a  rich  reward 

From  the  far-stretching  landscape,  by  the  light 

Of  morning  beautified,  or  purple  eve  ; 

Or,  not  less  pleased,  lay  on  some  turret's  head,          220 

Catching  from  tufts  of  grass  and  hare-bell  flowers 

Their  faintest  whisper  to  the  passing  breeze, 

Given  out  while  mid-day  heat  oppressed  the  plains. 

Another  maid  there  was,  who  also  shed 
A  gladness  o'er  that  season,  then  to  me, 
By  her  exulting  outside  look  of  youth 
And  placid  under-countenance,  first  endeared ; 
That  other  spirit,  Coleridge  !  who  is  now 
So  near  to  us,  that  meek  confiding  heart, 
So  reverenced  by  us  both.     O'er  paths  and  fields       230 
In  all  that  neighborhood,  through  narrow  lanes 


108  THE  PRELUDE. 

Of  eglantine,  and  through  the  shady  woods, 

And  o'er  the  Border  Beacon,  and  the  waste 

Of  naked  pools,  and  common  crags  that  lay 

Exposed  on  the  bare  fell,  were  scattered  love, 

The  spirit  of  pleasure,  and  youth's  golden  gleam. 

O  Friend  !  we  had  not  seen  thee  at  that  time, 

And  yet  a  power  is  on  me,  and  a  strong 

Confusion,  and  I  seem  to  plant  thee  there. 

Far  art  thou  wandered  now  in  search  of  health  240 

And  milder  breezes,  —  melancholy  lot ! 

But  thou  art  with  us,  with  us  in  the  past, 

The  present,  with  us  in  the  times  to  come. 

There  is  no  grief,  no  sorrow,  no  despair, 

No  languor,  no  dejection,  no  dismay, 

No  absence  scarcely  can  there  be,  for  those 

Who  love  as  we  do.     Speed  thee  well !  divide 

With  us  thy  pleasure  ;  thy  returning  strength, 

Receive  it  daily  as  a  joy  of  ours  ; 

Share  with  us  thy  fresh  spirits,  whether  gift  250 

Of  gales  Etesian  or  of  tender  thoughts. 

I,  too,  have  been  a  wanderer ;  buty  alas  ! 
How  different  the  fate  of  different  men. 
Though  mutually  unknown,  yea,  nursed  and  reared 
As  if  in  several  elements,  we  were  framed 
To  bend  at  last  to  the  same  discipline, 
Predestined,  if  two  beings  ever  were, 
To  seek  the  same  delights,  and  have  one  health, 
One  happiness.     Throughout  this  narrative, 
Else  sooner  ended,  I  have  borne  in  mind  260 

For  whom  it  registers  the  birth,  and  marks  the  growth, 


BOOK  SIXTH.  109 

Of  gentleness,  simplicity,  and  truth, 

And  joyous  loves,  that  hallow  innocent  days 

Of  peace  and  self-command.     Of  rivers,  fields, 

And  groves  I  speak  to  thee,  my  Friend  !  to  thee, 

Who,  yet  a  liveried  schoolboy,  in  the  depths 

Of  the  huge  city,  on  the  leaded  roof 

'Of  that  wide  edifice,  thy  school  and  home, 

Wert  used  to  lie  and  gaze  upon  the  clouds 

Moving  in  heaven  ;  or,  of  that  pleasure  tired,  270 

To  shut  thine  eyes,  and  by  internal  light 

See  trees,  and  meadows,  and  thy  native  stream, 

Far  distant,  thus  beheld  from  year  to  year 

Of  a  long  exile.     Nor  could  I  forget, 

In  this  late  portion  of  my  argument, 

That  scarcely,  as  my  term  of  pupilage 

Ceased,  had  I  left  those  academic  bowers 

When  thou  wert  thither  guided.     From  the  heart 

Of  London,  and  from  cloisters  there,  thou  earnest, 

And  didst  sit  down  in  temperance  and  peace,  280 

A  rigorous  student.     What  a  stormy  course 

Then  followed.     Oh  !  it  is  a  pang  that  calls 

For  utterance,  to  think  what  easy  change 

Of  circumstances  might  to  thee  have  spared 

A  world  of  pain,  ripened  a  thousand  hopes, 

Forever  withered.     Through  this  retrospect 

Of  my  collegiate  life  I  still  have  had, 

Thy  after-sojourn  in  the  self-same  place 

Present  before  my  eyes,  have  played  with  times 

And  accidents  as  children  do  with  cards,  290 

Or  as  a  man,  who,  when  his  house  is  built, 

A  frame  locked  up  in  wood  and  stone,  doth  still, 


110-  THE  PRELUDE. 

As  impotent  fancy  prompts,  by  his  fireside, 

Rebuild  it  to  his  liking.     I  have  thought 

Of  thee,  thy  learning,  gorgeous  eloquence, 

And  all  the  strength  and  plumage  of  thy  youth, 

Thy  subtle  speculations,  toils  abstruse 

Among  the  schoolmen,  and  Platonic  forms 

Of  wild  ideal  pageantry,  shaped  out 

From  things  well-matched  or  ill,  and  words  for  things, 

The  self-created  sustenance  of  a  mind  301 

Debarred  from  Nature's  living  images, 

Compelled  to  be  a  life  unto  herself, 

And  unrelentingly  possessed  by  thirst 

Of  greatness,  love,  and  beauty.     Not  alone, 

Ah  !  surely  not  in  singleness  of  heart 

Should  I  have  seen  the  light  of  evening  fade 

From  smooth  Cam's  silent  waters  :  had  we  met, 

Even  at  that  early  time,  needs  must  I  trust 

In  the  belief  that  my  maturer  age,  310 

My  calmer  habits,  and  more  steady  voice, 

Would  with  an  influence  benign  have  soothed, 

Or  chased  away,  the  airy  wretchedness 

That  battened  on  thy  youth.     But  thou  hast  trod 

A  march  of  glory,  which  doth  put  to  shame 

These  vain  regrets ;  health  suffers  in  thee,  else 

Such  grief  for  thee  would  be  the  weakest  thought 

That  ever  harbored  in  the  breast  of  man. 

A  passing  word  erewhile  did  lightly  touch 
On  wanderings  of  my  own,  that  now  embraced  320 

With  livelier  hope  a  region  wider  far. 


BOOK  SIXTH.  Ill 

When  the  third  summer  freed  us  from  restraint, 
A  youthful  friend,  he  too  a  mountaineer, 
Not  slow  to  share  my  wishes,  took  his  staff, 
And  sallying  forth,  we  journeyed  side  by  side, 
Bound  to  the  distant  Alps.     A  hardy  slight 
Did  this  unprecedented  course  imply 
Of  college  studies  and  their  set  rewards  ; 
Nor  had,  in  truth,  the  scheme  been  formed  by  me 
Without  uneasy  forethought  of  the  pain,  330 

The  censures,  and  ill-omening  of  those 
To  whom  my  worldly  interests  were  dear. 
But  Nature  then  was  sovereign  in  my  mind, 
And  mighty  forms,  seizing  a  youthful  fancy, 
Had  given  a  charter  to  irregular  hopes. 
In  any  age  of  uneventful  calm 
Among  the  nations,  surely  would  my  heart 
Have  been  possessed  by  similar  desire  ; 
But  Europe  at  that  time  was  thrilled  with  joy, 
France  standing  on  the  top  of  golden  hours,  340 

And  human  nature  seeming  born  again. 

Lightly  equipped,  and  but  a  few  brief  looks 
Cast  on  the  white  cliffs  of  our  native  shore 
From  the  receding  vessel's  deck,  we  chanced 
To  land  at  Calais  on  the  very  eve 
Of  that  great  federal  day,  and  there  we  saw, 
In  a  mean  city,  and  among  a  few, 
How  bright  a  face  is  worn  when  joy  of  one 
Is  joy  for  tens  of  millions.     Southward  thence 
We  held  our  way,  direct  through  hamlets,  towns,         350 
Gaudy  with  reliques  of  that  festival, 


112  THE  PRELUDE. 

Flowers  left  to  wither  on  triumphal  arcs, 

And  window-garlands.     On  the  public  roads, 

And,  once,  three  days  successively,  through  paths 

By  which  our  toilsome  journey  was  abridged, 

Among  sequestered  villages  we  walked 

And  found  benevolence  and  blessedness 

Spread  like  a  fragrance  everywhere,  when  spring 

Hath  left  no  corner  of  the  land  untouched ; 

Where  elms  for  many  and  many  a  league  in  files,        s6c 

With  their  thin  umbrage,  on  the  stately  roads 

Of  that  great  kingdom,  rustled  o'er  our  heads, 

Forever  near  us  as  we  paced  along  : 

How  sweet  at  such  a  time,  with  such  delight 

On  every  side,  in  prime  of  youthful  strength, 

To  feed  a  Poet's  tender  melancholy 

And  fond  conceit  of  sadness,  with  the  sound 

Of  undulations  varying  as  might  please 

The  wind  that  swayed  them  ;  once,  and  more  than  once. 

Unhoused  beneath  the  evening  star  we  saw  37c 

Dances  of  liberty,  and  in  late  hours 

Of  darkness,  dances  in  the  open  air 

Deftly  prolonged,  though  gray-haired  lookers  on 

Might  waste  their  breath  in  chiding. 

Under  hills  — 

The  vine-clad  hills  and  slopes  of  Burgundy, 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  gentle  Saone 
We  glided  forward  with  the  flowing  stream. 
Swift  Rhone  !  thou  wert  the  wings  on  which  we  cut 
A  winding  passage  with  majestic  ease 
Between  thy  lofty  rocks.     Enchanting  show  380 

Those  woods  and  farms,  and  orchards  did  present, 


BOOK  SIXTH.  113 

And  single  cottages  and  lurking  towns, 

Reach  after  reach,  succession  without  end 

Of  deep  and  stately  vales  !     A  lonely  pair 
;  Of  strangers,  till  day  closed,  we  sailed  along 

Clustered  together  with  a  merry  crowd 

Of  those  emancipated,  a  blithe  host 

Of  travellers,  chiefly  delegates,  returning 

From  the  great  spousals  newly  solemnized 

At  their  chief  city,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven.  390 

Like  bees  they  swarmed,  gaudy  and  gay  as  bees ; 

Some  vapored  in  the  unruliness  of  joy, 

And  with  their  swords  flourished  as  if  to  fight 

The  saucy  air.     In  this  proud  company 

We  landed  —  took  with  them  our  evening  meal, 

Guests  welcome  almost  as  the  angels  were 

To  Abraham  of  old.     The  supper  done, 

With  flowing  cups  elate  and  happy  thoughts 

We  rose  at  signal  given,  and  formed  a  ring 

And,  hand  in  hand,  danced  round  and  round  the  board  ; 
i  All  hearts  were  open,  every  tongue  was  loud  401 

With  amity  and  glee ;  we  bore  a  name 

Honored  in  France,  the  name  of  Englishmen, 

And  hospitably  did  they  give  us  hail, 
;  As  their  forerunners  in  a  glorious  course  ; 
•  And  round  and  round  the  board  we  danced  again.    ' 

With  these  blithe  friends  our  voyage  we  renewed 

At  early  dawn.     The  monastery  bells 

Made  a  sweet  jingling  in  our  youthful  ears ;  v*Vt.«svwJt 

The  rapid  river  flowing  without  noise,  410 

And  each  uprising  or  receding  spire 

Spake  with  a  sense  of  peace,  at  intervals 


THE  PRELUDE. 

Touching  the  heart  amid  the  boisterous  crew 

By  whom  we  were  encompassed.     Taking  leave 

Of  this  glad  throng,  foot-travellers  side  by  side, 

Measuring  our  steps  in  quiet,  we  pursued 

Our  journey,  and  ere  twice  the  sun  had  set 

Beheld  the  Convent  of  Chartreuse,  and  there 

Rested  within  an  awful  solitude. 

Yes ;  for  even  then  no  other  than  a  place  420 

Of  soul-affecting  solitude  appeared 

That  far-famed  region,  though  our  eyes  had  seen, 

As  toward  the  sacred  mansion  we  advanced, 

Anns  flashing,  and  a  military  glare 

Of  riotous  men  commissioned  to  expel 

The  blameless  inmates,  and  belike  subvert 

The  frame  of  social  being,  which  so  long 

Had  bodied  forth  the  ghostliness  of  things 

In  silence  visible  and  perpetual  calm. 

—  "  Stay,  stay  your  sacrilegious  hands  !  "  —  The  voice 

Was  Nature's,  uttered  from  her  Alpine  throne ;  431 

I  heard  it  then  and  seem  to  hear  it  now  — 

"  Your  impious  work  forbear  :  perish  what  may, 

Let  this  one  temple  last,  be  this  one  spot 

Of  earth  devoted  to  eternity  !  " 

She  ceased  to  speak,  but  while  St.  Bruno's  pines 

Waved  their  dark  tops,  not  silent  as  they  waved, 

And  while  below,  along  their  several  beds, 

Murmured  the  sister  streams  of  Life  and  Death, 

Thus  by  conflicting  passions  pressed,  my  heart  440 

Responded  :  "  Honor  to  the  patriot's  zeal ! 

Glory  and  hope  to  new-born  Liberty  ! 

Hail  to  the  mighty  projects  of  the  time  ! 


BOOK  SIXTH.  115 

Discerning  sword  that  Justice  wields,  do  thou 

Go  forth  and  prosper ;  and,  ye  purging  fires, 

Up  to  the  loftiest  towers  of  Pride  ascend, 

Fanned  by  the  breath  of  angry  Providence. 

But  oh  !  if  Past  and  Future  be  the  wings 

On  whose  support  harmoniously  conjoined 

Moves  the  great  spirit  of  human  knowledge,  spare      450^ 

These  courts  of  mystery,  where  a  step  advanced 

Between  the  portals  of  the  shadowy  rocks 

Leaves  far  behind  Life's  treacherous  vanities, 

For  penitential  tears  and  trembling  hopes 

Exchanged  —  to  equalize  in  God's  pure  sight 

Monarch  and  peasant ;  be  the  house  redeemed 

With  its  unworldly  votaries,  for  the  sake 

Of  conquest  over  sense,  hourly  achieved 

Through  faith  and  meditative  reason,  resting 

Upon  the  word  of  heaven-imparted  truth,  460 

Calmly  triumphant ;  and  for  humbler  claim 

Of  that  imaginative  impulse  sent 

From  these  majestic  floods,  yon  shining  cliffs, 

The  untransmuted  shapes  of  many  worlds, 

Cerulean  ether's  pure  inhabitants, 

These  forests  unapproachable  by  death, 

That  shall  endure  as  long  as  man  endures, 

To  think,  to  hope,  to  worship,  and  to  feel, 

To  struggle,  to  be  lost  within  himself 

In  trepidation,  from  the  blank  abyss  470 

To  look  with  bodily  eyes,  and  be  consoled." 

Not  seldom  since  that  moment  have  I  wished 

That  thou,  O  Friend  !  the  trouble  or  the  calm 

Hadst  shared,  when,  from  profane  regards  apart, 


116  THE  PRELUDE. 

In  sympathetic  reverence  we  trod 

The  floors  of  those  dim  cloisters,  till  that  hour, 

From  their  foundation,  strangers  to  the  presence 

Of  unrestricted  and  unthinking  man. 

Abroad  how  cheeringly  the  sunshine  lay 

Upon  the  open  lawns  !     Vallombre's  groves  480 

Entering,  we  fed  the  soul  with  darkness ;  thence 

Issued,  and  with  uplifted  eyes  beheld, 

In  different  quarters  of  the  bending  sky, 

The  cross  of  Jesus  stand  erect,  as  if 

Hands  of  angelic  powers  had  fixed  it  there, 

Memorial  reverenced  by  a  thousand  storms ; 

Yet  then,  from  the  undiscriminating  sweep 

And  rage  of  one  State- whirlwind,  insecure. 

'Tis  not  my  present  purpose  to  retrace 
That  variegated  journey  step  by  step.  490 

A  march  it  was  of  military  speed, 
And  Earth  did  change  her  images  and  forms 
Before  us,  fast  as  clouds  are  changed  in  heaven 
Day  after  day,  up  early  and  down  late, 
From  hill  to  vale  we  dropped,  from  vale  to  hill 
Mounted  —  from  province  on  to  province  swept, 
Keen  hunters  in  a  chase  of  fourteen  weeks, 
Eager  as  birds  of  prey,  or  as  a  ship 
Upon  the  stretch,  when  winds  are  blowing  fair  : 
Sweet  coverts  did  we  cross  of  pastoral  life,  500 

Enticing  valleys,  greeted  them  and  left 
Too  soon,  while  yet  the  very  flash  and  gleam 
Of  salutation  were  not  passed  away. 
Oh  !  sorrow  for  the  youth  who  could  have  seen 


BOOK  SIXTH.  117 

Unchastened,  unsubdued,  unawed,  unraised 

To  patriarchal  dignity  of  mind, 

And  pure  simplicity  of  wish  and  will, 

Those  sanctified  abodes  of  peaceful  man, 

Pleased  (though  to  hardship  born,  and  compassed  round 

With  danger,  varying  as  the  seasons  change)  510 

Pleased  with  his  daily  task,  or,  if  not  pleased, 

Contented,  from  the  moment  that  the  dawn 

(Ah  !  surely  not  without  attendant  gleams 

Of  soul- illumination)  calls  him  forth 

To  industry,  by  glistenings  flung  on  rocks, 

Whose  evening  shadows  lead  him  to  repose. 

Well  might  a  stranger  look  with  bounding  heart 
Down  on  a  green  recess,  the  first  I  saw 
Of  those  deep  haunts,  an  aboriginal  vale, 
Quiet  and  lorded  over  and  possessed  520 

By  naked  huts,  wood-built,  and  sown  like  tents 
Or  Indian  cabins  over  the  fresh  lawns 
And  by  the  river  side. 

That  very  day 

From  a  bare  ridge  we  also  first  beheld 
Unveiled  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc,  and  grieved 
To  have  a  soulless  image  on  the  eye 
That  had  usurped  upon  a  living  thought 
That  never  more  could  be.     The  wondrous  Vale 
Of  Chamouny  stretched  far  below,  and  soon 
With  its  dumb  cataracts  and  streams  of  ice,  530 

A  motionless  array  of  mighty  waves, 
Five  rivers  broad  and  vast,  made  rich  amends, 
And  reconciled  us  to  realities ; 


118  THE  PRELUDE. 

There  small  birds  warble  from  the  leafy  trees, 

The  eagle  soars  high  in  the  element, 

There  doth  the  reaper  bind  the  yellow  sheaf, 

The  maiden  spread  the  haycock  in  the  sun, 

While  Winter,  like  a  well- tamed  lion  walks, 

Descending  from  the  mountain  to  make  sport 

Among  the  cottages  by  beds  of  flowers.  540 

Whate'er  in  this  wide  circuit  we  beheld, 
Or  heard,  was  fitted  to  our  unripe  state 
Of  intellect  and  heart.     With  such  a  book 
Before  our  eyes,  we  could  not  choose  but  read 
Lessons  of  genuine  brotherhood,  the  plain 
And  universal  reason  of  mankind, 
The  truths  of  young  and  old.     Nor,  side  by  side 
Pacing,  two  social  pilgrims,  or  alone 
Each  with  his  humor,  could  we  fail  to  abound 
In  dreams  and  fictions,  pensively  composed :  550 

Dejection  taken  up  for  pleasure's  sake, 
And  gilded  sympathies,  the  willow  wreath, 
And  sober  posies  of  funereal  flowers, 
Gathered  among  those  solitudes  sublime 
From  formal  gardens  of  the  lady  Sorrow, 
Did  sweeten  many  a  meditative  hour. 

Yet  still  in  me  with  those  soft  luxuries 
Mixed  something  of  stern  mood,  an  underthirst 
Of  vigor  seldom  utterly  allayed  : 

And  from  that  source  how  different  a  sadness  560 

Would  issue,  let  one  incident  make  known. 


BOOK  SIXTH.  119 

When  from  the  Vallais  we  had  turned,  and  clomb 

Along  the  Simplon's  steep  and  rugged  road, 

Following  a  band  of  muleteers,  we  reached 

A  halting-place,  where  all  together  took 

Their  noon-tide  meal.     Hastily  rose  our  guide, 

Leaving  us  at  the  board ;  awhile  we  lingered, 

Then  paced  the  beaten  downward  way  that  led 

Right  to  a  rough  stream's  edge,  and  there  broke  off; 

The  only  track  now  visible  was  one  570 

That  from  the  torrent's  further  brink  held  forth 

Conspicuous  invitation  to  ascend 

A  lofty  mountain.     After  brief  delay 

Crossing  the  unbridged  stream,  that  road  we  took, 

And  clomb  with  eagerness,  till  anxious  fears 

Intruded,  for  we  failed  to  overtake 

Our  comrades  gone  before.     By  fortunate  chance, 

While  every  moment  added  doubt  to  doubt, 

A  peasant  met  us,  from  whose  mouth  we  learned 

That  to  the  spot  which  had  perplexed  us  first,  580 

We  must  descend,  and  there  should  find  the  road, 

Which  in  the  stony  channel  of  the  stream 

Lay  a  few  steps,  and  then  along  its  banks  : 

And  that  our  future  course,  all  plain  to  sight, 

Was  downwards,  with  the  current  of  that  stream. 

Loth  to  believe  what  we  so  grieved  to  hear, 

For  still  we  had  hopes  that  pointed  to  the  clouds, 

We  questioned  him  again,  and  yet  again ; 

But  every  word  that  from  the  peasant's  lips 

Came  in  reply,  translated  by  our  feelings,  590 

Ended  in  this,  —  that  we  had  crossed  the  Alps. 


120  THE  PRELUDE. 

Imagination  —  here  the  Power  so-called 
Through  sad  incompetence  of  human  speech, 
That  awful  Power  rose  from  the  mind's  abyss 
Like  an  unfathered  vapor  that  enwraps, 
At  once,  some  lonely  traveller.     I  was  lost ; 
Halted  without  an  effort  to  break  through ; 
But  to  my  conscious  soul  I  now  can  say  — 
"  I  recognize  thy  glory ;  "  in  such  strength 
Of  usurpation,  when  the  light  of  sense  600 

Goes  out,  but  with  a  flash  that  has  revealed 
The  invisible  world,  doth  greatness  make  abode, 
There  harbors  ;  whether  we  be  young  or  old, 
Our  destiny,  our  being's  heart  and  home, 
Is  with  infinitude,  and  only  there  ; 
With  hope  it  is,  hope  that  can  never  die, 
Effort,  and  expectation,  and  desire, 
And  something  evermore  about  to  be. 
Under  such  banners  militant,  the  soul 
Seeks  for  no  trophies,  struggles  for  no  spoils  610 

That  may  attest  her  prowess,  blest  in  thoughts 
That  are  their  own  perfection  and  reward, 
Strong  in  herself  and  in  beatitude 
That  hides  her,  like  the  mighty  flood  of  Nile 
Poured  from  his  fount  of  Abyssinian  clouds 
To  fertilize  the  whole  Egyptian  plain. 

The  melancholy  slackening  that  ensued 
Upon  those  tidings  by  the  peasant  given 
Was  soon  dislodged.     Downwards  we  hurried  fast, 
And,  with  the  half-shaped  road  which  we  had  missed, 
Entered  a  narrow  chasm.     The  brook  and  road         621 


BOOK  SIXTH.  121 

Were  fellow-travellers  in  this  gloomy  strait, 

And  with  them  did  we  journey  several  hours 

At  a  slow  pace.     The  immeasurable  height 

Of  woods  decaying,  never  to  be  decayed, 

The  stationary  blasts  of  waterfalls^ 

And  in  the  narrow  rent  at  every  turn 

Winds  thwarting  winds,  bewildered  and  forlorn, 

The  torrents  shooting  from  the  clear  blue  sky, 

The  rocks  that  muttered  close  upon  our  ears,  630 

Black  drizzling  crags  that  spake  by  the  wayside 

As  if  a  voice  were  in  them,  the  sick  sight 

And  giddy  prospect  of  the  raving  stream, 

The  unfettered  clouds  and  region  of  the  Heavens, 

Tumult  and  peace,  the  darkness  and  the  light  — 

Were  all  like  workings  of  one  mind,  the  features 

Of  the  same  face,  blossoms  upon  one  tree  ; 

Characters  of  the  great  Apocalypse, 

The  types  and  symbols  of  Eternity, 

Of  first,  and  last,  and  midst,  and  without  end.  640 

That  night  our  lodging  was  a  house  that  stood 
Alone  within  the  valley,  at  a  point 
Where,  tumbling  from  aloft,  a  torrent  swelled 
The  rapid  stream  whose  margin  we  had  trod ; 
A  dreary  mansion,  large  beyond  all  need, 
With  high  and  spacious  rooms,  deafened  and  stunned 
By  noise  of  waters,  making  innocent  sleep 
Lie  melancholy  among  weary  bones. 

Uprisen  betimes,  our  journey  we  renewed, 
Led  by  the  stream,  ere  noon-day  magnified  650 


122  THE  PRELUDE. 

Into  a  lordly  river,  broad  and  deep, 

Dimpling  along  in  silent  majesty, 

With  mountains  for  its  neighbors,  and  in  view 

Of  distant  mountains  and  their  snowy  tops, 

And  thus  proceeding  to  Locarno's  Lake, 

Fit  resting-place  for  such  a  visitant. 

Locarno  !  spreading  out  in  width  like  Heaven, 

How  dost  thou  cleave  to  the  poetic  heart, 

Bask  in  the  sunshine  of  the  memory ; 

And  Como  !  thou,  a  treasure  whom  the  earth  660 

Keeps  to  herself,  confined  as  in  a  depth 

Of  Abyssinian  privacy.     I  spake 

Of  thee,  thy  chestnut  woods,  and  garden  plots 

Of  Indian  corn  tended  by  dark-eyed  maids ; 

Thy  lofty  steeps,  and  pathways  roofed  with  vines, 

Winding  from  house  to  house,  from  town  to  town, 

Sole  link  that  binds  them  to  each  other ;  walks, 

League  after  league,  and  cloistral  avenues, 

Where  silence  dwells  if  music  be  not  there  : 

While  yet  a  youth  undisciplined  in  verse,  670 

Through  fond  ambition  of  that  hour  I  strove 

To  chant  your  praise  ;  nor  can  approach  you  now 

Ungreeted  by  a  more  melodious  Song, 

Where  tones  of  Nature  smoothed  by  learned  Art 

May  flow  in  lasting  current.     Like  a  breeze 

Or  sunbeam  over  your  domain  I  passed 

In  motion  without  pause ;  but  ye  have  left 

Your  beauty  with  me,  a  serene  accord 

Of  forms  and  colors,  passive,  yet  endowed 

In  their  submissiveness  with  power  as  sweet  680 

And  gracious,  almost  might  I  dare  to  say, 


BOOK  SIXTH.  123 

As  virtue  is,  or  goodness  ;  sweet  as  love, 
Or  the  remembrance  of  a  generous  deed, 
Or  mildest  visitations  of  pure  thought, 
When  God,  the  giver  of  all  joy,  is  thanked 
Religiously,  in  silent  blessedness  ; 
Sweet  as  this  last  herself,  for  such  it  is. 

With  those  delightful  pathways  we  advanced, 
For  two  days'  space,  in  presence  of  the  Lake, 
That,  stretching  far  among  the  Alps,  assumed  690 

A  character  more  stern.     The  second  night, 
From  sleep  awakened,  and  misled  by  sound 
Of  the  church  clock  telling  the  hours  with  strokes 
Whose  import  then  we  had  not  learned,  we  rose 
By  moonlight,  doubting  not  that  day  was  nigh, 
And  that  meanwhile  by  no  uncertain  path, 
Along  the  winding  margin  of  the  lake, 
Led,  as  before,  we  should  behold  the  scene 
Hushed  in  profound  repose.     We  left  the  town 
Of  Gravedona  with  this  hope  ;  but  soon  700 

Were  lost,  bewildered  among  woods  immense, 
And  on  a  rock  sate  down,  to  wait  for  day. 
An  open  place  it  was,  and  overlooked, 
From  high,  the  sullen  water  far  beneath, 
On  which  a  dull  red  image  of  the  moon 
Lay  bedded,  changing  oftentimes  its  form 
Like  an  uneasy  snake.     From  hour  to  hour 
We  sate  and  sate,  wondering,  as  if  the  night 
Had  been  ensnared  by  witchcraft.     On  the  rock 
At  last  we  stretched  our  weary  limbs  for  sleep,  710 

But  could  not  sleep,  tormented  by  the  stings 


124  THE  PRELUDE. 

Of  insects,  which,  with  noise  like  that  of  noon, 

Filled  all  the  woods  :  the  cry  of  unknown  birds ; 

The  mountains  more  by  blackness  visible 

And  their  own  size,  than  any  outward  light ; 

The  breathless  wilderness  of  clouds ;  the  clock 

That  told  with  unintelligible  voice, 

The  widely  parted  hours ;  the  noise  of  streams, 

And  sometimes  rustling  motions  nigh  at  hand, 

That  did  not  leave  us  free  from  personal  fear ;  720 

And,  lastly,  the  withdrawing  moon,  that  set 

Before  us,  while  she  still  was  high  in  heaven ;  — 

These  were  our  food ;  and  such  a  summer's  night 

Followed  that  pair  of  golden  days  that  shed 

On  Como's  Lake,  and  all  that  round  it  lay, 

Their  fairest,  softest,  happiest  influence. 

But  here  I  must  break  off,  and  bid  farewell 
To  days,  each  offering  some  new  sight,  or  fraught 
With  some  untried  adventure,  in  a  course 
Prolonged  till  sprinklings  of  autumnal  snow  730 

Checked  our  unwearied  steps.     Let  this  alone 
Be  mentioned  as  a  parting  word,  that  not 
In  hollow  exultation,  dealing  out 
Hyperboles" of  praise  comparative; 
Not  rich  one  moment  to  be  poor  forever ; 
Not  prostrate,  overborne,  as  if  the  mind 
Herself  were  nothing,  a  mere  pensioner 
On  outward  forms  —  did  we  in  presence  stand 
Of  that  magnificent  region.     On  the  front 
Of  this  whole  Song  is  written  that  my  heart  74° 

Must,  in  such  Temple,  needs  have  offered  up 


BOOK  SIXTH.  125 

A  different  worship.     Finally,  whate'er 

I  saw,  or  heard,  or  felt,  was  but  a  stream 

That  flowed  into  a  kindred  stream  ;  a  gale, 

Confederate  with  the  current  of  the  soul, 

To  speed  my  voyage  ;  every  sound  or  sight, 

In  its  degree  of  power,  administered 

To  grandeur  or  to  tenderness,  —  to  the  one 

Directly,  but  to  tender  thoughts  by  means 

Less  often  instantaneous  in  effect ;  75° 

Led  me  to  these  by  paths  that,  in  the  main, 

Were  more  circuitous,  but  not  less  sure 

Duly  to  reach  the  point  marked  out  by  Heaven. 

Oh,  most  beloved  Friend  !  a  glorious  time, 
A  happy  time  that  was  ;  triumphant  looks 
Were  then  the  common  language  of  all  eyes ; 
As  if  awaked  from  sleep,  the  Nations  hailed 
Their  great  expectancy  :  the  fife  of  war 
Was  then  a  spirit-stirring  sound  indeed, 
A  blackbird's  whistle  in  a  budding  grove.  760 

We  left  the  Swiss  exulting  in  the  fate 
Of  their  near  neighbors  ;  and,  when  shortening  fast 
Our  pilgrimage,  nor  distant  far  from  home, 
We  crossed  the  Brabant  armies  on  the  fret 
For  battle  in  the  cause  of  Liberty. 
A  stripling,  scarcely  of  the  household  then 
Of  social  life,  I  looked  upon  these  things 
As  from  a  distance ;  heard,  and  saw,  and  felt, 
Was  touched,  but  with  no  intimate  concern  ; 
I  seemed  to  move  along  them,  as  a  bird  770 

Moves  through  the  air,  or  as  a  fish  pursues 


126  THE  PRELUDE. 

Its  sport,  or  feeds  in  its  proper  element ; 

I  wanted  not  that  joy,  I  did  not  need 

Such  help  ;  the  ever-living  universe, 

Turn  where  I  might,  was  opening  out  its  glories, 

And  the  independent  spirit  of  pure  youth 

Called  forth,  at  every  season,  new  delights 

Spread  round  my  steps  like  sunshine  o'er  green  fields. 


BOOK  SEVENTH. 


RESIDENCE  IN  LONDON. 

Six  changeful  years  have  vanished  since  I  first 

Poured  out  (saluted  by  that  quickening  breeze 

Which  met  me  issuing  from  the  City's  walls) 

A  glad  preamble  to  this  Verse  :  I  sang 

Aloud,  with  fervor  irresistible 

Of  short-lived  transport,  like  a  torrent  bursting, 

From  a  black  thunder- cloud,  down  Scafell's  side 

To  rush  and  disappear.     But  soon  broke  forth 

(So  willed  the  Muse)  a  less  impetuous  stream, 

That  flowed  awhile  with  unabating  strength,  10 

Then  stopped  for  years ;  not  audible  again 

Before  last  primrose-time.     Beloved  Friend  ! 

The  assurance  which  then  cheered  some  heavy  thoughts 

On  thy  departure  to  a  foreign  land 

Has  failed  ;  too  slowly  moves  the  promised  work, 

Through  the  whole  summer  have  I  been  at  rest, 

Partly  from  voluntary  holiday, 

And  part  through  outward  hindrance.     But  I  heard, 

After  the  hour  of  sunset  yester-even, 

Sitting  within  doors  between  light  and  dark,  20 

A  choir  of  red-breasts  gathered  somewhere  near 


128  THE  PRELUDE. 

My  threshold,  —  minstrels  from  the  distant  woods 

Sent  in  on  Winter's  service,  to  announce, 

With  preparation  artful  and  benign, 

That  the  rough  lord  had  left  the  surly  North 

On  his  accustomed  journey.     The  delight, 

Due  to  his  timely  notice,  unawares 

Smote  me,  and,  listening,  I  in  whispers  said, 

"Ye  heartsome  Choristers,  ye  and  I  will  be 

Associates,  and,  unscared  by  blustering  winds,  30 

Will  chant  together."     Thereafter,  as  the  shades 

Of  twilight  deepened,  going  forth,  I  spied 

A  glow-worm  underneath  a  dusky  plume 

Or  canopy  of  yet  unwithered  fern, 

Clear-shining,  like  a  hermit's  taper  seen 

Through  a  thick  forest.     Silence  touched  me  here 

No  less  than  sound  had  done  before ;  the  child 

Of  Summer,  lingering,  shining,  by  herself, 

The  voiceless  worm  on  the  unfrequented  hills, 

Seemed  sent  on  the  same  errand  with  the  choir  40 

Of  Winter  that  had  warbled  at  my  door, 

And  the  whole  year  breathed  tenderness  and  love. 

The  last  night's  genial  feeling  overflowed 
Upon  this  morning,  and  my  favorite  grove, 
Tossing  in  sunshine  its  dark  bough  aloft, 
As  if  to  make  the  strong  wind  visible, 
Wakes  in  me  agitations  like  its  own, 
A  spirit  friendly  to  the  Poet's  task, 
Which  we  will  now  resume  with  lively  hope, 
Nor  checked  by  aught  of  tamer  argument  50 

That  lies  before  us,  needful  to  be  told. 


BOOK  SEVENTH,  129 

Returned  from  that  excursion,  soon  I  bade 
Farewell  forever  to  the  sheltered  seats 
Of  gowned  students,  quitted  hall  and  bower, 
And  every  comfort  of  that  privileged  ground, 
Well  pleased  to  pitch  a  vagrant  tent  among 
The  unfenced  regions  of  society. 

Yet,  undetermined  to  what  course  of  life 
I  should  adhere,  and  seeming  to  possess 
A  little  space  of  intermediate  time  60 

At  full  command,  to  London  first  I  turned 
In  no  disturbance  of  excessive  hope, 
By  personal  ambition  unenslaved, 
Frugal  as  there  was  need,  and,  though  self-willed, 
From  dangerous  passions  free.     Three  years  had  flown 
Since  I  had  felt  in  heart  and  soul  the  shock 
Of  the  huge  town's  first  presence,  and  had  paced 
Her  endless  streets,  a  transient  visitant : 
Now,  fixed  amid  that  concourse  of  mankind 
Where  Pleasure  whirls  about  incessantly,  70 

And  life  and  labor  seem  but  one,  I  filled 
An  idler's  place ;  an  idler  well  content 
To  have  a  house  (what  matter  for  a  home  ?) 
That  owned  him  ;  living  cheerfully  abroad 
With  unchecked  fancy  ever  on  the  stir, 
And  all  my  young  affections  out  of  doors. 

There  was  a  time  when  whatsoe'er  is  feigned 
Of  airy  palaces,  and  gardens  built 
By  Genii  of  romance  :  or  hath  in  grave 
Authentic  history  been  set  forth  of  Rome,  80 


130  THE  PRELUDE. 

Alcairo,  Babylon,  or  Persepolis ; 

Or  given  upon  report  by  pilgrim  friars, 

Of  golden  cities  ten  months'  journey  deep 

Among  Tartarian  wilds  —  fell  short,  far  short, 

Of  what  my  fond  simplicity  believed 

And  thought  of  London  —  held  me  by  a  chain 

Less  strong  of  wonder  and  obscure  delight. 

Whether  the  bolt  of  childhood's  Fancy  shot 

For  me  beyond  its  ordinary  mark, 

'Twere  vain  to  ask ;  but  in  our  flock  of  boys  90 

Was  One,  a  cripple  from  his  birth,  whom  chance 

Summoned  from  school  to  London ;  fortunate 

And  envied  traveller  !     When  the  Boy  returned, 

After  short  absence,  curiously  I  scanned 

His  mien  and  person,  nor  was  free,  in  sooth, 

From  disappointment,  not  to  find  some  change 

In  look  and  air,  from  that  new  region  brought, 

As  if  from  Fairy-land.     Much  I  questioned  him ; 

And  every  word  he  uttered,  on  my  ears 

Fell  flatter  than  a  caged  parrot's  note,  100 

That  answers  unexpectedly  awry, 

And  mocks  the  prompter's  listening.    Marvellous  things 

Had  vanity  (quick  Spirit  that  appears 

Almost  as  deeply  seated  and  as  strong 

In  a  Child's  heart  as  fear  itself)  conceived 

For  my  enjoyment.     Would  that  I  could  now 

Recall  what  then  I  pictured  to  myself, 

Of  mitred  Prelates,  Lords  in  ermine  clad, 

The  King,  and  the  King's  Palace,  and,  not  last, 

Nor  least,  Heaven  bless  him  !  the  renowned  Lord  Mayor  : 

Dreams  not  unlike  to  those  which  once  begat  in 


BOOK  SEVENTH.  131 

A  change  of  purpose  in  young  Whittington, 
When  he,  a  friendless  and  a  drooping  boy, 
Sate  on  a  stone,  and  heard  the  bells  speak  out 
Articulate  music.     Above  all,  one  thought 
Baffled  my  understanding  :  how  men  lived 
Even  next-door  neighbors,  as  we  say,  yet  still 
Strangers,  not  knowing  each  the  other's  name. 

O,  wondrous  power  of  words,  by  simple  faith 
Licensed  to  take  the  meaning  that  we  love  !  120 

Vauxhall  and  Ranelagh  !     I  then  had  heard 
Of  your  green  groves,  and  wilderness  of  lamps 
Dimming  the  stars,  and  fireworks  magical, 
And  gorgeous  ladies,  under  splendid  domes, 
Floating  in  dance,  or  warbling  high  in  air 
The  songs  of  spirits  !     Nor  had  Fancy  fed 
With  less  delight  upon  that  other  class 
Of  marvels,  broad-day  wonders  permanent : 
The  River  proudly  bridged ;  the  dizzy  top 
And  Whispering  Gallery  of  St.  Paul's  ;  the  tombs       130 
Of  Westminster  :  the  Giants  of  Guildhall ; 
Bedlam,  and  those  carved  maniacs  at  the  gates, 
Perpetually  recumbent ;  Statues  —  man, 
And  the  horse  under  him  —  in  gilded  pomp 
Adorning  flowery  gardens,  'mid  vast  squares  ; 
The  Monument,  and  that  Chamber  of  the  Tower 
Where  England's  sovereigns  sit  in  long  array, 
Their  steeds  bestriding,  —  every  mimic  shape 
Cased  in  the  gleaming  mail  the  monarch  wore, 
Whether  for  gorgeous  tournament  addressed,  140 

Or  life  or  death  upon  the  battle-field. 


132  THE   PRELUDE. 

Those  bold  imaginations  in  due  time 

Had  vanished,  leaving  others  in  their  stead : 

And  now  I  looked  upon  the  living  scene ; 

Familiarly  perused  it ;  oftentimes, 

In  spite  of  strongest  disappointment,  pleased 

Through  courteous  self-submission,  as  a  tax 

Paid  to  the  object  by  prescriptive  right. 

Rise  up,  thou  monstrous  ant-hill  on  the  plain 
Of  a  too  busy  world  !     Before  me  flow,  150 

Thou  endless  stream  of  men  and  moving  things  ! 
Thy  every-day  appearance,  as  it  strikes  — 
With  wonder  heightened,  or  sublimed  by  awe  — 
On  strangers,  of  all  ages  ;  the  quick  dance 
Of  colors,  lights,  and  forms  ;  the  deafening  din ; 
The  comers  and  the  goers  face  to  face, 
Face  after  face  ;  the  string  of  dazzling  wares, 
Shop  after  shop,  with  symbols,  blazoned  names, 
And  all  the  tradesman's  honors  overhead  : 
Here,  fronts  of  houses,  like  a  title-page,  160 

With  letters  huge  inscribed  from  top  to  toe, 
Stationed  above  the  door,  like  guardian  saints ; 
There,  allegoric  shapes,  female  or  male, 
Or  physiognomies  of  real  men, 
Land-warriors,  kings,  or  admirals  of  the  sea, 
Boyle,  Shakespeare,  Newton,  or  the  attractive  head 
Of  some  quack-doctor,  famous  in  his  day. 

Meanwhile  the  roar  continues,  till  at  length, 
Escaped  as  from  an  enemy,  we  turn 
Abruptly  into  some  sequestered  nook,  170 


BOOK  SEVENTH.  133 

Still  as  a  sheltered  place  when  winds  blow  loud  ! 

At  leisure,  thence,  through  tracts  of  thin  resort, 

And  sights  and  sounds  that  come  at  intervals, 

We  take  our  way.     A  raree-show  is  here, 

With  children  gathered  round  ;  another  street 

Presents  a  company  of  dancing  dogs, 

Or  dromedary,  with  an  antic  pair 

Of  monkeys  on  his  back  ;  a  minstrel  band 

Of  Savoyards  ;  or,  single  and  alone, 

An  English  ballad-singer.     Private  courts,  180 

Gloomy  as  coffins,  and  unsightly  lanes 

Thrilled  by  some  female  vendor's  scream,  belike 

The  very  shrillest  of  all  London  cries, 

May  then  entangle  our  impatient  steps  ; 

Conducted  through  those  labyrinths,  unawares, 

To  privileged  regions  and  inviolate, 

Where  from  their  airy  lodge  studious  lawyers 

Look  out  on  waters,  walks,  and  gardens  green. 

Thence  back  into  the  throng,  until  we  reach, 
Following  the  tide  that  slackens  by  degrees,  190 

Some  half- frequented  scene,  where  wider  streets 
Bring  straggling  breezes  of  suburban  air. 
Here  files  of  ballads  dangle  from  dead  walls ; 
Advertisements,  of  giant-size,  from  high 
Press  forward,  in  all  colors,  on  the  sight ; 
These  bold  in  conscious  merit,  lower  down ; 
That,  fronted  with  a  most  imposing  word, 
Is,  peradventure,  one  in  masquerade. 
As  on  the  broadening  causeway  we  advance, 
Behold,  turned  upwards,  a  face  hard  and  strong         200 


134  THE  PRELUDE. 

In  lineaments,  and  red  with  over- toil. 

Tis  one  encountered  here  and  everywhere ; 

A  travelling  cripple,  by  the  trunk  cut  short, 

And  stumping  on  his  arms.     In  sailor's  garb 

Another  lies  at  length,  beside  a  range 

Of  well-formed  characters,  with  chalk  inscribed 

Upon  the  smooth  flat  stones  :  the  Nurse  is  here, 

The  Bachelor,  that  loves  to  sun  himself, 

The  military  Idler,  and  the  Dame, 

That  field-ward  takes  her  walk  with  decent  steps.       210 

Now  homeward  through  the  thickening  hubbub,  where 
See,  among  less  distinguishable  shapes, 
The  begging  scavenger,  with  hat  in  hand ; 
The  Italian,  as  he  thrids  his  way  with  care, 
Steadying,  far-seen,  a  frame  of  images 
Upon  his  head  ;  with  basket  at  his  breast 
The  Jew ;  the  stately  and  slow-moving  Turk, 
With  freight  of  slippers  piled  beneath  his  arm  ! 

Enough ;  —  the  mighty  concourse  I  surveyed 
With  no  unthinking  mind,  well  pleased  to  note  220 

Among  the  crowd  all  specimens  of  man, 
Through  all  the  colors  which  the  sun  bestows, 
And  every  character  of  form  and  face  : 
The  Swede,  the  Russian ;  from  the  genial  south, 
The  Frenchman  and  the  Spaniard ;  from  remote 
America,  the  Hunter-Indian  ;  Moors, 
Malays,  Lascars,  the  Tartar,  the  Chinese, 
And  Negro  Ladies  in  white  muslin  gowns. 


BOOK  SEVENTH.  135 

At  leisure,  then  I  viewed,  from  day  to  day, 
The  spectacles  within  doors,  —  birds  and  beasts         230 
Of  every  nature,  and  strange  plants  convened 
From  every  clime  ;  and,  next,  those  sights  that  ape 
The  absolute  presence  of  reality, 
Expressing,  as  in  mirror,  sea  and  land, 
And  what  earth  is,  and  what  she  has  to  show. 
I  do  not  here  allude  to  subtlest  craft, 
By  means  refined  attaining  purest  ends, 
But  imitations,  fondly  made  in  plain 
Confession  of  man's  weakness  and  his  loves. 
Whether  the  Painter,  whose  ambitious  skill  240 

Submits  to  nothing  less  than  taking  in 
A  whole  horizon's  circuit,  do  with  power, 
Like  that  of  angels  or  commissioned  spirits, 
Fix  us  upon  some  lofty  pinnacle, 
Or  in  a  ship  on  waters,  with  a  world 
Of  life,  and  life-like  mockery  beneath, 
Above,  behind,  far  stretching  and  before ; 
Or  more  mechanic  artist  represent 
By  scale  exact,  in  model,  wood  or  clay, 
From  blended  colors  also  borrowing  help,  250 

Some  miniature  of  famous  spots  or  things,  — 
St.  Peter's  Church ;  or,  more  aspiring  aim, 
In  microscopic  vision,  Rome  herself; 
Or,  haply,  some  choice  rural  haunt,  —  the  Falls 
Of  Tivoli ;  and,  high  upon  that  steep, 
The  Sibyl's  mouldering  Temple  !  every  tree, 
Villa,  or  cottage,  lurking  among  rocks 
Throughout  the  landscape  ;  tuft,  stone,  scratch  minute — 
All  that  the  traveller  sees  when  he  is  there. 


136  THE  PRELUDE. 

Add  to  these  exhibitions,  mute  and  still,  260 

Others  of  wider  scope,  where  living  men, 
Music,  and  shifting  pantomimic  scenes, 
Diversified  the  allurement.     Need  I  fear 
To  mention  by  its  name,  as  in  degree, 
Lowest  of  these  and  humblest  in  attempt, 
Yet  richly  graced  with  honors  of  her  own, 
Half-rural  Sadler's  Wells?     Though  at  that  time 
Intolerant,  as  is  the  way  of  youth 
Unless  itself  be  pleased,  here  more  than  once 
Taking  my  seat,  I  saw  (nor  blush  to  add,  270 

With  ample  recompense)'  giants  and  dwarfs, 
Clowns,  conjurers,  posture -masters,  harlequins, 
Amid  the  uproar  of  the  rabblement, 
Perform  their  feats.     Nor  was  it  mean  delight 
To  watch  crude  Nature  work  in  untaught  minds ; 
To  note  the  laws  and  progress  of  belief; 
Though  obstinate  on  this  way,  yet  on  that 
How  willingly  we  travel,  and  how  far  ! 
To  have,  for  instance,  brought  upon  the  scene 
The  champion,  Jack  the  Giant-killer :     Lo  !  280 

He  dons  his  coat  of  darkness ;  on  the  stage 
Walks,  and  achieves  his  wonders,  from  the  eye 
Of  living  Mortal  covert,  "  as  the  moon 
Hid  in  her  vacant  interlunar  cave." 
Delusion  bold  !  and  how  can  it  be  wrought? 
The  garb  he  wears  is  black  as  death,  the  word 
"Invisible  "  flames  forth  upon  his  chest. 

Here,  too,  were  "  forms  and  pressures  of  the  time," 
Rough,  bold,  as  Grecian  comedy  displayed 


BOOK  SEVENTH.  137 

When  Art  was  young ;  dramas  of  living  men,  290 

And  recent  things  yet  warm  with  life  ;  a  sea-fight, 

Shipwreck,  or  some  domestic  incident 

Divulged  by  Truth  and  magnified  by  Fame ; 

Such  as  the  daring  brotherhood  of  late 

Set  forth,  too  serious  theme  for  that  light  place  — 

I  mean,  O  distant  Friend  !  a  story  drawn 

From  our  own  ground,  —  The  Maid  of  Buttermere, 

And  how,  unfaithful  to  a  virtuous  wife, 

Deserted  and  deceived,  the  Spoiler  came 

And  wooed  the  artless  daughter  of  the  hills,  300 

And  wedded  her,  in  cruel  mockery 

Of  love  and  marriage  bonds.     These  words  to  thee 

Must  needs  bring  back  the  moment  when  we  first, 

Ere  the  broad  world  rang  with  the  maiden's  name, 

Beheld  her  serving  at  the  cottage  inn 

Both  stricken,  as  sh»  entered  or  withdrew, 

With  admiration  of  her  modest  mien 

And  carriage,  marked  by  unexampled  grace. 

We  since  that  time  not  unfamiliarly 

Have  seen  her,  her  discretion  have  observed,  310 

Her  just  opinions,  delicate  reserve, 

Her  patience,  and  humility  of  mind 

Unspoiled  by  commendation  and  the  excess 

Of  public  notice  —  an  offensive  light 

To  a  meek  spirit  suffering  inwardly. 

From  this  memorial  tribute  to  my  theme 
I  was  returning,  when,  with  sundry  forms 
Commingled  —  shapes  which  met  me  in  the  way 
That  we  must  tread  —  thy  image  rose  again, 


138  THE  PRELUDE. 

Maiden  of  Buttermere  !     She  lives  in  peace  320 

Upon  the  spot  where  she  was  born  and  reared ; 

Without  contamination  doth  she  live 

In  quietness,  without  anxiety  : 

Beside  the  mountain  chapel,  sleeps  in  earth 

Her  new-born  infant,  fearless  as  a  lamb 

That,  thither  driven  from  some  unsheltered  place, 

Rests  underneath  the  little  rock-like  pile 

When  storms  are  raging.     Happy  are  they  both  — 

Mother  and  child  !  —  These  feelings,  in  themselves 

Trite,  do  yet  seem  scarcely  so  when  I  think  330 

On  those  ingenuous  moments  of  our  youth 

Ere  we  have  learnt  by  use  to  slight  the  crimes 

And  sorrows  of  the  world.     Those  simple  days 

Are  now  my  theme  :  and,  foremost  of  the  scenes 

Which  yet  survive  in  memory,  appears 

One,  at  whose  centre  sate  a  lonely  Boy, 

A  sportive  infant,  who,  for  six  months'  space, 

Not  more,  had  been  of  age  to  deal  about 

Articulate  prattle  —  Child  as  beautiful 

As  ever  clung  around  a  mother's  neck,  340 

Or  father  fondly  gazed  upon  with  pride. 

There,  too,  conspicuous  for  stature  tall 

And  large  dark  eyes,  beside  her  infant  stood 

The  mother ;  but,  upon  her  cheeks  diffused, 

False  tints  too  well  accorded  with  the  glare 

From  play-house  lustres  thrown  without  reserve 

On  every  object  near.     The  Boy  had  been 

The  pride  and  pleasure  of  all  lookers-on 

In  whatsoever  place,  but  seemed  in  this 

A  sort  of  alien  scattered  from  the  clouds.  350 


BOOK  SEVENTH.  139 

Of  lusty  vigor,  more  than  infantine 

He  was  in  limb,  in  cheek  a  summer  rose 

Just  three  parts  blown  —  a  cottage-child  —  if  e'er, 

By  cottage-door  on  breezy  mountain  side, 

Or  in  some  sheltering  vale,  was  seen  a  babe 

By  Nature's  gifts  so  favored.     Upon  a  board 

Decked  with  refreshments  had  this  child  been  placed, 

His  little  stage  in  the  vast  theatre, 

And  there  he  sate  surrounded  with  a  throng 

Of  chance  spectators,  chiefly  dissolute  men  360 

And  shameless  women,  treated  and  caressed ; 

Ate,  drank,  and  with  the  fruit  and  glasses  played, 

While  oaths  and  laughter  and  indecent  speech 

Were  rife  about  him  as  the  songs  of  birds 

Contending  after  showers.     The  mother  now 

Is  fading  out  of  memory,  but  I  see 

The  lovely  Boy  as  I  beheld  him  then 

Among  the  wretched  and  the  falsely  gay, 

Like  one  of  those  who  walked  with  hair  unsinged 

Amid  the  fiery  furnace.     Charms  and  spells  370 

Muttered  on  black  and  spiteful  instigation 

Have  stopped,  as  some  believe,  the  kindliest  growths. 

Ah,  with  how  different  spirit  might  a  prayer 

Have  been  preferred,  that  this  fair  creature,  checked 

By  special  privilege  of  Nature's  love, 

Should  in  his  childhood  be  detained  forever  ! 

But  with  its  universal  freight  the  tide 

Hath  rolled  along,  and  this  bright  innocent, 

Mary  !  may  now  have  lived  till  he  could  look 

With  envy  on  thy  nameless  babe  that  sleeps,  380 

Beside  the  mountain  chapel,  undisturbed. 


140  THE  PRELUDE. 

Four  rapid  years  had  scarcely  then  been  told 
Since,  travelling  southward  from  our  pastoral  hills, 
I  heard,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
The  voice  of  woman  utter  blasphemy  — 
Saw  woman  as  she  is,  to  open  shame 
Abandoned,  and  the  pride  of  public  vice ; 
I  shuddered,  for  a  barrier  seemed  at  once 
Thrown  in  that  from  humanity  divorced 
Humanity,  splitting  the  race  of  man  390 

In  twain,  yet  leaving  the  same  outward  form. 
Distress  of  mind  ensued  upon  the  sight, 
And  ardent  meditation.     Later  years 
Brought  to  such  a  spectacle  a  milder  sadness, 
Feelings  of  pure  commiseration,  grief 
For  the  individual  and  the  overthrow 
Of  her  soul's  beauty ;  farther  I  was  then 
But  seldom  led,  or  wished  to  go ;  in  truth 
The  sorrow  of  the  passion  stopped  me  there. 

But  let  me  now,  less  moved,  in  order  take  400 

Our  argument.     Enough  is  said  to  show 
How  casual  incidents  of  real  life, 
Observed  where  pastime  only  had  been  sought, 
Outweighed,  or  put  to  flight,  the  set  events 
And  measured  passions  of  the  stage,  albeit 
By  Siddons  trod  in  the  fulness  of  her  power. 
Yet  was  the  theatre  my  dear  delight ; 
The  very  gilding,  lamps  and  painted  scrolls, 
And  all  the  mean  upholstery  of  the  place, 
Wanted  not  animation,  when  the  tide  410 

Of  pleasure  ebbed  but  to  return  as  fast 


BOOK  SEVENTH.  141 

With  the  ever-shifting  figures  of  the  scene, 

Solemn  or  gay  :  whether  some  beauteous  dame, 

Advanced  in  radiance  through  a  deep  recess 

Of  thick  entangled  forest,  like  the  moon 

Opening  the  clouds ;  or  sovereign  king,  announced 

With  flourishing  trumpet,  came  in  full-blown  state 

Of  the  world's  greatness,  winding  round  with  train 

Of  courtiers,  banners,  and  a  length  of  guards  ; 

Or  captive  led  in  abject  weeds,  and  jingling  420 

His  slender  manacles  ;  or  romping  girl, 

Bounced,  leapt,  and  pawed  the  air ;  or  mumbling  sire, 

A  scare-crow  pattern  of  old  age  dressed  up 

In  all  the  tatters  of  infirmity 

All  loosely  put  together,  hobbled  in, 

Stumping  upon  a  cane  with  which  he  smites, 

From  time  to  time,  the  solid  boards,  and  makes  them 

Prate  somewhat  loudly  of  the  whereabout 

Of  one  so  overloaded  with  his  years. 

But  what  of  this  !  the  laugh,  the  grin,  grimace,  430 

The  antics  striving  to  outstrip  each  other, 

Were  all  received,  the  least  of  them  not  lost, 

With  an  unmeasured  welcome.     Through  the  night, 

Between  the  show,  and  many-headed  mass 

Of  the  spectators,  and  each  several  nook 

Filled  with  its  fray  or  brawl,  how  eagerly 

And  with  what  flashes,  as  it  were,  the  mind 

Turned  this  way — that  way  !  sportive  and  alert 

And  watchful,  as  a  kitten  when  at  play, 

While  winds  are  eddying  round  her,  among  straws     440 

And  rustling  leaves.     Enchanting  age  and  sweet ! 

Romantic  almost,  looked  at  through  a  space, 


142  THE  PRELUDE. 

How  small,  of  intervening  years  !     For  then, 

Though  surely  no  mean  progress  had  been  made 

In  meditations  holy  and  sublime, 

Yet  something  of  a  girlish  child-like  gloss 

Of  novelty  survived  for  scenes  like  these ; 

Enjoyment  haply  handed  down  from  times 

When  at  a  country-playhouse,  some  rude  barn 

Tricked  out  for  that  proud  use,  if  I  perchance  450 

Caught,  on  a  summer  evening  through  a  chink 

In  the  old  wall,  an  unexpected  glimpse 

Of  daylight,  the  bare  thought  of  where  I  was 

Gladdened  me  more  than  if  I  had  been  led 

Into  a  dazzling  cavern  of  romance, 

Crowded  with  Genii  busy  among  works 

Not  to  be  looked  at  by  the  common  sun. 

The  matter  that  detains  us  now  may  seem 
To  many,  neither  dignified  enough 
Nor  arduous,  yet  will  not  be  scorned  by  them  460 

Who,  looking  inward,  have  observed  the  ties 
That  bind  the  perishable  hours  of  life 
Each  to  the  other,  and  the  curious  props 
By  which  the  world  of  memory  and  thought 
Exists  and  is  sustained.     More  lofty  themes, 
Such  as  at  least  do  wear  a  prouder  face, 
Solicit  our  regard  ;  but  when  I  think 
Of  these,  I  feel  the  imaginative  power 
Languish  within  me  ;  even  then  it  slept, 
When,  pressed  by  tragic  sufferings,  the  heart  470 

Was  more  than  full ;  amid  my  sobs  and  tears 
It  slept,  even  in  the  pregnant  season  of  youth. 


BOOK  SEVENTH.  143 

For  though  I  was  most  passionately  moved 

And  yielded  to  all  changes  of  the  scene 

With  an  obsequious  promptness,  yet  the  storm 

Passed  not  beyond  the  suburbs  of  the  mind ; 

Save  when  realities  of  act  and  mien, 

The  incarnation  of  the  spirits  that  move 

In  harmony  amid  the  Poet's  world, 

Rose  to  ideal  grandeur,  or  called  forth  480 

By  power  of  contrast,  made  me  recognize, 

As  at  a  glance,  the  things  which  I  had  shaped, 

And  yet  not  shaped,  had  seen  and  scarcely  seen, 

When,  having  closed  the  mighty  Shakespeare's  page, 

I  mused,  and  thought,  and  felt,  in  solitude. 

Pass  we  from  entertainments,  that  are  such 
Professedly,  to  others  titled  higher, 
Yet,  in  the  estimate  of  youth  at  least, 
More  near  akin  to  those  than  names  imply,  — 
I  mean  the  brawls  of  lawyers  in  their  courts  490 

Before  the  ermined  judge,  or  that  great  stage 
Where  senators,  tongue-favored  men,  perform, 
Admired  and  envied.     Oh  !  the  beating  heart, 
When  one  among  the  prime  of  these  rose  up, 
One,  of  whose  name  from  childhood  we  had  heard 
Familiarly,  a  household  term,  like  those, 
The  Bedfords,  Glosters,  Salsburys,  of  old 
Whom  the  fifth  Harry  talks  of.     Silence  !  hush  ! 
This  is  no  trifler,  no  short- flighted  wit, 
No  stammerer  of  a  minute,  painfully  500 

Delivered.     No  !  the  Orator  hath  yoked 
The  Hours,  like  young  Aurora,  to  his  car : 


144  THE  PRELUDE. 

Thrice  welcome  Presence  !  how  can  patience  e'er 

Grow  weary  of  attending  on  a  track 

That  kindles  with  such  glory  !     All  are  charmed, 

Astonished ;  like  a  hero  in  romance, 

He  winds  away  his  never-ending  horn ; 

Words  follow  words,  sense  seems  to  follow  sense ; 

What  memory  and  what  logic  !  till  the  strain 

Transcendent,  superhuman  as  it  seemed,  510 

Grows  tedious  even  in  a  young  man's  ear. 

Genius  of  Burke  !  forgive  the  pen  seduced 
By  specious  wonders,  and  too  slow  to  tell 
Of  what  the  ingenuous,  what  bewildered  men, 
Beginning  to  mistrust  their  boastful  guides, 
And  wise  men,  willing  to  grow  wiser,  caught, 
Rapt  auditors  !  from  thy  most  eloquent  tongue  — 
Now  mute,  forever  mute  in  the  cold  grave. 
I  see  him,  —  old,  but  vigorous  in  age,  — 
Stand  like  an  oak  whose  stag-horn  branches  start       520 
Out  of  its  leafy  brow,  the  more  to  awe 
The  younger  brethren  of  the  grove.     But  some  — 
While  he  forewarns,  denounces,  launches  forth, 
Against  all  systems  built  on  abstract  rights, 
Keen  ridicule  ;  the  majesty  proclaims 
Of  Institutes  and  Laws,  hallowed  by  time ; 
Declares  the  vital  power  of  social  ties 
Endeared  by  Custom  ;  and  with  high  disdain, 
Exploding  upstart  Theory,  insists 

Upon  the  allegiance  to  which  men  are  born  —  530 

Some  —  say  at  once  a  froward  multitude  — 
Murmur  (for  truth  is  hated,  where  not  loved) 


BOOK  SEVENTH.  145 

As  the  winds  fret  within  the  ^Eolian  cave, 

Galled  by  their  monarch's  chain.     The  times  were  big 

With  ominous  change,  which,  night  by  night,  provoked 

Keen  struggles,  and  black  clouds  of  passion  raised ; 

But  memorable  moments  intervened, 

When  Wisdom,  like  the  Goddess  from  Jove's  brain, 

Broke  forth  in  armor  of  resplendent  words, 

Startling  the  Synod.     Could  a  youth,  and  one  540 

In  ancient  story  versed,  whose  breast  had  heaved 

Under  the  weight  of  classic  eloquence, 

Sit,  see,  and  hear,  unthankful,  uninspired? 

Nor  did  the  Pulpit's  oratory  fail 
To  achieve  its  higher  triumph.     Not  unfelt 
Were  its  admonishments,  nor  lightly  heard 
The  awful  truths  delivered  thence  by  tongues 
Endowed  by  various  power  to  search  the  soul ; 
Yet  ostentation,  domineering,  oft 

Poured  forth  harangues,  how  sadly  out  of  place  !  —  550 
There  have  I  seen  a  comely  bachelor, 
Fresh  from  a  toilette  of  two  hours,  ascend 
His  rostrum,  with  seraphic  glance  look  up, 
And,  in  a  tone  elaborately  low 
Beginning,  lead  his  voice  through  many  a  maze 
A  minuet  course  ;  and,  winding  up  his  mouth, 
From  time  to  time,  into  an  orifice 
Most  delicate,  a  lurking  eyelet,  small, 
And  only  not  invisible,  again 

Open  it  out,  diffusing  thence  a  smile  560 

Of  rapt  irradiation,  exquisite. 
Meanwhile  the  Evangelists,  Isaiah,  Job, 


146  THE  PRELUDE. 

Moses,  and  he  who  penned,  the  other  day, 

The  death  of  Abel,  Shakespeare,  and  the  Bard 

Whose  genius  spangled  o'er  a  gloomy  theme 

With  fancies  thick  as  his  inspiring  stars, 

And  Ossian  (doubt  not —  'tis  the  naked  truth) 

Summoned  from  streamy  Morven  —  each  and  all 

Would,  in  their  turns,  lend  ornaments  and  flowers 

To  entwine  the  crook  of  eloquence  that  helped          570 

This  pretty  Shepherd,  pride  of  all  the  plains, 

To  rule  and  guide  his  captivated  flock. 


I  glance  but  at  a  few  conspicuous  marks, 
Leaving  a  thousand  others,  that,  in  hall, 
Court,  theatre,  conventicle,  or  shop, 
In  public  room  or  private,  park  or  street, 
Each  fondly  reared  on  his  own  pedestal, 
Looked  out  for  admiration.     Folly,  vice, 
Extravagance  in  gesture,  mien,  and  dress, 
And  all  the  strife  of  singularity,  580 

Lies  to  the  ear,  and  lies  to  every  sense  — 
Of  these,  and  of  the  living  shapes  they  wear, 
There  is  no  end.     Such  candidates  for  regard, 
Although  well  pleased  to  be  where  they  were  found, 
I  did  not  hunt  after,  nor  greatly  prize, 
Nor  made  unto  myself  a  secret  boast 
Of  reading  them  with  quick  and  curious  eye ; 
But,  as  a  common  produce,  things  that  are 
To-day,  to-morrow  will  be,  took  of  them 
Such  willing  note  as,  on  some  errand  bound  590 

That  asks  not  speed,  a  traveller  might  bestow 


BOOK  SEVENTH.  147 

On  sea-shells  that  bestrew  the  sandy  beach, 
Or  daisies  swarming  through  the  fields  of  June. 

But  foolishness  and  madness  in  parade, 
Though  most  at  home  in  this  their  dear  domain, 
Are  scattered  everywhere,  no  rarities, 
Even  to  the  rudest  novice  of  the  Schools. 
Me,  rather,  it  employed,  to  note,  and  keep 
In  memory,  those  individual  sights 
Of  courage,  or  integrity,  or  truth,  600 

Or  tenderness,  which  there,  set  off  by  foil, 
Appeared  more  touching.     One  will  I  select ; 
A  Father  —  for  he  bore  that  sacred  name  — 
Him  saw  I,  sitting  in  an  open  square, 
Upon  a  corner-stone  of  that  low  wall, 
Wherein  were  fixed  the  iron  pales  that  fenced 
A  spacious  grass-plot ;  there,  in  silence,  sate 
This  One  Man,  with  a  sickly  babe  outstretched 
Upon  his  knee,  whom  he  had  thither  brought 
For  sunshine,  and  to  breathe  the  fresher  air.  610 

Of  those  who  passed,  and  me  who  looked  at  him, 
He  took  no  heed ;  but  in  his  brawny  arms 
(The  Artificer  was  to  the  elbow  bare, 
And  from  his  work  this  moment  had  been  stolen) 
He  held  the  child,  and,  bending  over  it, 
As  if  he  were  afraid  both  of  the  sun 
And  of  the  air,  which  he  had  come  to  seek, 
Eyed  the  poor  babe  with  love  unutterable. 

As  the  black  storm  upon  the  mountain  top 
Sets  off  the  sunbeam  in  the  valley,  so  620 

That  huge  fermenting  mass  of  human-kind 


148  THE  PRELUDE. 

Serves  as  a  solid  back-ground,  or  relief, 

To  single  forms  and  objects,  whence  they  draw, 

For  feeling  and  contemplative  regard, 

More  than  inherent  liveliness  and  power. 

How  oft,  amid  those  overflowing  streets, 

Have  I  gone  forward  with  the  crowd,  and  said 

Unto  myself,  "  The  face  of  every  one 

That  passes  by  me  is  a  mystery  !  " 

Thus  have  I  looked,  nor  ceased  to  look,  oppressed     630 

By  thoughts  of  what  and  whither,  when  and  how, 

Until  the  shapes  before  my  eyes  became 

A  second-sight  procession,  such  as  glides 

Over  still  mountains,  or  appears  in  dreams ; 

And  once,  far-travelled  in  such  mood,  beyond 

The  reach  of  common  indication,  lost 

Amid  the  moving  pageant,  I  was  smitten 

Abruptly,  with  the  view  (a  sight  not  rare) 

Of  a  blind  Beggar,  who,  with  upright  face, 

Stood,  propped  against  a  wall,  upon  his  chest  640 

Wearing  a  written  paper,  to  explain 

His  story,  whence  he  came,  and  who  he  was. 

Caught  by  the  spectacle  my  mind  turned  round 

As  with  the  might  of  waters ;  and  apt  type 

This  label  seemed  of  the  utmost  we  can  know, 

Both  of  ourselves  and  of  the  universe  ; 

And,  on  the  shape  of  that  unmoving  man 

His  steadfast  face  and  sightless  eyes,  I  gazed, 

As  if  admonished  from  another  world. 

Though  reared  upon  the  base  of  outward  things,    650 
Structures  like  these  the  excited  spirit  mainly 


BOOK  SEVENTH.  149 

Builds  for  herself;  scenes  different  there  are, 

Full- formed,  that  take,  with  small  internal  help, 

Possession  of  the  faculties,  —  the  peace 

That  comes  with  night :  the  deep  solemnity 

Of  nature's  intermediate  hours  of  rest, 

When  the  great  tide  of  human  life  stands  still : 

The  business  of  the  day  to  come,  unborn, 

Of  that  gone  by,  locked  up,  as  in  the  grave ; 

The  blended  calmness  of  the  heavens  and  earth,         660 

Moonlight  and  stars,  and  empty  streets,  and  sounds 

Unfrequent  as  in  deserts ;  at  late  hours 

Of  winter  evenings,  when  unwholesome  rains 

Are  falling  hard,  with  people  yet  astir, 

The  feeble  salutation  from  the  voice 

Of  some  unhappy  woman,  now  and  then 

Heard  as  we  pass,  when  no  one  looks  about, 

Nothing  is  listened  to.     But  these,  I  fear, 

Are  falsely  catalogued ;  things  that  are,  are  not, 

As  the  mind  answers  to  them,  or  the  heart  670 

Is  prompt,  or  slow,  to  feel.     What  say  you,  then, 

To  times,  when  half  the  city  shall  break  out 

Full  of  one  passion,  vengeance,  rage,  or  fear? 

To  executions,  to  a  street  on  fire, 

Mobs,  riots,  or  rejoicings  ?     From  these  sights 

Take  one,  —  that  ancient  festival,  the  Fair, 

Holden  where  martyrs  suffered  in  past  time, 

And  named  of  St.  Bartholomew ;  there,  see 

A  work  completed  to  our  hands,  that  lays, 

If  any  spectacle  on  earth  can  do,  680 

The  whole  creative  powers  of  man  asleep  !  — 

For  once,  the  Muse's  help  will  we  implore, 


150  THE  PRELUDE. 

And  she  shall  lodge  us,  wafted  on  her  wings, 

Above  the  press  and  danger  of  the  crowd, 

Upon  some  showman's  platform.     What  a  shock 

For  eyes  and  ears  !  what  anarchy  and  din, 

Barbarian  and  infernal,  —  a  phantasma, 

Monstrous  in  color,  motion,  shape,  sight,  sound  ! 

Below,  the  open  space,  through  every  nook 

Of  the  wide  area,  twinkles,  is  alive  690 

With  heads  ;  the  midway  region,  and  above, 

Is  thronged  with  staring  pictures  and  huge  scrolls, 

Dumb  proclamations  of  the  Prodigies ; 

With  chattering  monkeys  dangling  from  their  poles, 

And  children  whirling  in  their  roundabouts  ; 

With  those  that  stretch  the  neck  and  strain  the  eyes, 

And  crack  the  voice  in  rivalship,  the  crowd 

Inviting ;  with  buffoons  against  buffoons 

Grimacing,  writhing,  screaming,  —  him  who  grinds 

The  hurdy-gurdy,  at  the  fiddle  weaves,  700 

Rattles  the  salt-box,  thumps  the  kettle-drum, 

And  him  who  at  the  trumpet  puffs  his  cheeks, 

The  silver-collared  Negro  with  his  timbrel, 

Equestrians,  tumblers,  women,  girls,  and  boys, 

Blue-breeched,  pink-vested,  with  high  towering  plumes. — 

All  movables  of  wonder,  from  all  parts, 

Are  here  —  Albinos,  painted  Indians,  Dwarfs, 

The  Horse  of  knowledge,  and  the  learned  Pig, 

The  Stone-eater,  the  man  that  swallows  fire, 

Giants,  ventriloquists,  the  Invisible  Girl,  710 

The  Bust  that  speaks  and  moves  its  goggling  eyes, 

The  Wax-work,  clock-work,  all  the  marvellous  craft 

Of  modern  Merlins,  Wild  Beasts,  Puppet-shows 


BOOK  SEVENTH.  151 

All  out-o'-the-way,  far-fetched,  perverted  things, 

All  freaks  of  nature,  all  Promethean  thoughts 

Of  man,  his  dulness,  madness,  and  their  feats 

All  jumbled  up  together,  to  compose 

A  parliament  of  Monsters.     Tents  and  Booths 

Meanwhile,  as  if  the  whole  were  one  vast  mill, 

Are  vomiting,  receiving  on  all  sides,  720 

Men,  Women,  three-years'  children,  Babes  in  arms. 

Oh,  blank  confusion  !  true  epitome 
Of  what  the  mighty  City  is  herself, 
To  thousands  upon  thousands  of  her  sons, 
Living  amid  the  same  perpetual  whirl 
Of  trivial  objects,  melted  and  reduced 
To  one  identity,  by  differences 
That  have  no  law,  no  meaning,  and  no  end  — 
Oppression,  under  which  even  highest  minds 
Must  labor,  whence  the  strongest  are  not  free.  730 

But  though  the  picture  weary  out  the  eye, 
By  riature  an  unmanageable  sight, 
It  is  not  wholly  so  to  him  who  looks 
In  steadiness,  who  hath  among  least  things 
An  under-sense  of  greatest ;  sees  the  parts 
As  parts,  but  with  a  feeling  of  the  whole. 
This,  of  all  acquisitions,  first  awaits 
On  sundry  and  most  widely  different  modes 
Of  education,  nor  with  least  delight 
On  that  through  which  I  passed.     Attention  springs,  740 
And  comprehensiveness  and  memory  flow, 
From  early  converse  with  the  works  of  God 
Among  all  regions  ;  chiefly  where  appear 


152  THE  PRELUDE. 

Most  obviously^implicity  and  power. 

Think,  how  the  everlasting  streams  and  woods, 

Stretched  and  still  stretching  far  and  wide,  exalt 

The  roving  Indian,  on  his  desert  sands  : 

What  grandeur  not  unfelt,  what  pregnant  show 

Of  beauty,  meets  the  sun-burnt  Arab's  eye  : 

And,  as  the  sea  propels,  from  zone  to  zone,  750 

Its  currents  ;  magnifies  its  shoals  of  life 

Beyond  all  compass ;  spreads,  and  sends  aloft 

Armies  of  clouds,  —  even  so,  its  powers  and  aspects 

Shape  for  mankind,  by  principles  as  fixed, 

The  views  and  aspirations  of  the  soul 

To  majesty.     Like  virtue  have  the  forms 

Perennial  of  the  ancient  hills ;  nor  less 

The  changeful  language  of  their  countenances 

Quickens  the  slumbering  mind,  and  aids  the  thoughts, 

However  multitudinous,  to  move  760 

With  order  and  relation.     This,  if  still, 

As  hitherto,  in  freedom  I  may  speak, 

Not  violating  any  just  restraint, 

As  may  be  hoped,  of  real  modesty,  — 

This  did  I  feel,  in  London's  vast  domain. 

The  Spirit  of  Nature  was  upon  me  there ; 

The  soul  of  Beauty  and  enduring  Life 

Vouchsafed  her  inspiration,  and  diffused, 

Through  meagre  lines  and  colors,  and  the  press 

Of  self-destroying,  transitory  things,  770 

Composure,  and  ennobling  Harmony. 


BOOK  EIGHTH. 


RETROSPECT.— LOVE  OF  NATURE  LEADING   TO 
LOVE    OF  MAN. 

WHAT  sounds  are  those,  Helvellyn,  that  are  heard 

Up  to  thy  summit,  through  the  depth  of  air 

Ascending,  as  if  distance  had  the  power 

To  make  the  sounds  more  audible  ?    What  crowd 

Covers,  or  sprinkles  o'er,  yon  village  green  ? 

Crowd  seems  it,  solitary  hill !  to  thee 

Though  but  a  little  family  of  men, 

Shepherds  and  tillers  of  the  ground  —  betimes 

Assembled  with  their  children  and  their  wives, 

And  here  and  there  a  stranger  interspersed. 

They  hold  a  rustic  fair  —  a  festival, 

Such  as,  on  this  side  now,  and  now  on  that, 

Repeated  through  his  tributary  vales, 

Helvellyn,  in  the  silence  of  his  rest, 

Sees  annually,  if  clouds  towards  either  ocean 

Blown  from  their  favorite  resting-place,  or  mists 

Dissolved,  have  left  him  an  unshrouded  head. 

Delightful  day  it  is  for  all  who  dwell 

In  this  secluded  glen,  and  eagerly 

They  give  it  welcome.     Long  ere  heat  of  noon, 


154  THE  PRELUDE. 

From  byre  or  field  the  kine  were  brought ;  the  sheep 

Are  penned  in  cotes ;  the  chaffering  is  begun. 

The  heifer  lows,  uneasy  at  the  voice 

Of  a  new  master ;  bleat  the  flocks  aloud. 

Booths  are  there  none ;  a  stall  or  two  is  here ; 

A  lame  man  or  a  blind,  the  one  to  beg, 

The  other  to  make  music ;  hither,  too, 

From  far,  with  basket,  slung  upon  her  arm, 

Of  hawker's  wares  —  books,  pictures,  combs,  and  pins  — 

Some  aged  woman  finds  her  way  again,  30 

Year  after  year,  a  punctual  visitant ! 

There  also  stands  a  speech-maker  by  rote, 

Pulling  the  strings  of  his  boxed  raree-show ; 

And  in  the  lapse  of  many  years  may  come 

Prouder  itinerant,  mountebank,  or  he 

Whose  wonders  in  a  covered  wain  lie  hid. 

But  one  there  is,  the  loveliest  of  them  all, 

Some  sweet  lass  of  the  valley,  looking  out 

For  gains,  and  who  that  sees  her  would  not  buy? 

Fruits  of  her  father's  orchard  are  her  wares,  40 

And  with  the  ruddy  produce,  she  walks  round 

Among  the  crowd,  half  pleased  with,  half  ashamed 

Of  her  new  office,  blushing  restlessly. 

The  children  now  are  rich,  for  the  old  to-day 

Are  generous  as  the  young,  and,  if  content 

With  looking  on,  some  ancient  wedded  pair 

Sit  in  the  shade  together,  while  they  gaze, 

"  A  cheerful  smile  unbends  the  wrinkled  brow, 

The  days  departed  start  again  to  life, 

And  all  the  scenes  of  childhood  reappear,  50 

Faint,  but  more  tranquil,  like  the  changing  sun 


BOOK  EIGHTH.  155 

To  him  who  slept  at  noon  and  wakes  at  eve." 

Thus  gayety  and  cheerfulness  prevail, 

Spreading  from  young  to  old,  from  old  to  young, 

And  no  one  seems  to  want  his  share.  — •  Immense 

Is  the  recess,  the  circumambient  world 

Magnificent,  by  which  they  are  embraced. 

They  move  about  upon  the  soft  green  turf : 

How  little  they,  they  and  their  doings,  seem, 

And  all  that  they  can  further  or  obstruct !  60 

Through  utter  weakness  pitiably  dear, 

As  tender  infants  are  ;  and  yet  how  great ! 

For  all  things  serve  them  ;  them  the  morning  light 

Loves,  as  it  glistens  on  the  silent  rocks ; 

And  them  the  silent  rocks  which  now  from  high 

Look  down  upon  them  ;  the  reposing  clouds  ; 

The  wild  brooks  prattling  from  invisible  haunts ; 

And  old  Helvellyn,  conscious  of  the  stir 

Which  animates  this  day  their  calm  abode. 

With  deep  devotion,  Nature,  did  I  feel,  70 

In  that  enormous  City's  turbulent  world 
Of  men  and  things,  what  benefit  I  owed 
To  thee,  and  those  domains  of  rural  peace, 
Where  to  the  sense  of  beauty  first  my  heart 
Was  opened,  tract  more  exquisitely  fair 
Than  that  famed  paradise  of  ten  thousand  trees, 
Or  Gehol's  matchless  gardens,  for  delight 
Of  the  Tartarian  dynasty  composed 
(Beyond  that  mighty  wall,  not  fabulous, 
China's  stupendous  mound)  by  patient  toil  So 

Of  myriads  and  boon  nature's  lavish  help  ; 


156  THE  PRELUDE. 

There,  in  a  clime  from  widest  empire  chosen, 

Fulfilling  (could  enchantment  have  done  more  ?) 

A  sumptuous  dream  of  flowery  lawns,  with  domes 

Of  pleasure  sprinkled  over,  shady  dells 

For  eastern  monasteries,  sunny  mounts 

With  temples  crested,  bridges,  gondolas, 

Rocks,  dens,  and  groves  of  foliage  taught  to  melt 

Into  each  other  their  obsequious  hues, 

Vanished  and  vanishing  in  subtle  chase,  90 

Too  fine  to  be  pursued  ;  or  standing  forth 

In  no  discordant  opposition,  strong 

And  gorgeous  as  the  colors  side  by  side 

Bedded  among  rich  plumes  of  tropic  birds ; 

And  mountains  over  all,  embracing  all ; 

And  all  the  landscape,  endlessly  enriched 

With  waters  running,  falling,  or  asleep. 


But  lovelier  far  than  this,  the  paradise 
Where  I  was  reared ;  in  Nature's  primitive  gifts 
Favored  no  less,  and  more  to  every  sense 
Delicious,  seeing  that  the  sun  and  sky, 
The  elements,  and  seasons  as  they  change, 
Do  find  a  worthy  fellow-laborer  there  — 
Man  free,  man  working  for  himself,  with  choice 
Of  time,  and  place  and  object ;  by  his  wants, 
His  comforts,  native  occupations,  cares, 
Cheerfully  led  to  individual  ends 
Or  social,  and  still  followed  by  a  train 
Unwooed,  unthought-of  even  —  simplicity, 
And  beauty,  and  inevitable  grace. 


BOOK  EIGHTH.  157 

Yea,  when  a  glimpse  of  those  imperial  bowers 
Would  to  a  child  be  transport  over-great, 
When  but  a  half-hour's  roam  through  such  a  place 
Would  leave  behind  a  dance  of  images, 
That  shall  break  in  upon  his  sleep  for  weeks ; 
Even  then  the  common  haunts  of  the  green  earth, 
And  ordinary  interests  of  man, 
Which  they  embosom,  all  without  regard 
As  both  may  seem,  are  fastening  on  the  heart 
Insensibly,  each  with  the  other's  help.  120 

For  me,  when  my  affections  first  were  led 
From  kindred,  friends,  and  playmates,  to  partake 
Love  for  the  human  creature's  absolute  self, 
That  noticeable  kindliness  of  heart 
Sprang  out  of  fountains,  there  abounding  most, 
Where  sovereign  Nature  dictated  the  tasks 
And  occupations  which  her  beauty  adorned, 
And  Shepherds  were  the  men  that  pleased  me  first ; 
Not  such  as  Saturn  ruled  'mid  Latian  wilds, 
With  arts  and  laws  so  tempered  that  their  lives  130 

Left,  even  to  us  toiling  in  this  late  day, 
A  bright  tradition  of  the  golden  age ; 
Not  such  as,  'mid  Arcadian  fastnesses 
Sequestered,  handed  down  among  themselves 
Felicity,  in  Grecian  song  renowned  ; 
Nor  such  as  —  when  an  adverse  fate  had  driven, 
From  house  and  home,  the  courtly  band  whose  fortunes 
Entered,  with  Shakespeare's  genius,  the  wild  woods 
Of  Arden  —  amid  sunshine  or  in  shade 
Culled  the  best  fruits  of  Time's  uncounted  hours,       140 
Ere  Phcebe  sighed  for  the  false  Ganymede ; 


158  THE  PRELUDE. 

Or  there  where  Perdita  and  Florizel 

Together  danced,  Queen  of  the  feast,  and  King ; 

Nor  such  as  Spenser  fabled.     True  it  is, 

That  I  had  heard  (what  he  perhaps  had  seen) 

Of  maids  at  sunrise  bringing  in  from  far 

Their  May-bush,  and  along  the  streets  in  flocks 

Parading  with  a  song  of  taunting  rhymes, 

Aimed  at  the  laggards  slumbering  within  doors ; 

Had  also  heard,  from  those  who  yet  remembered,      150 

Tales  of  the  May-pole  dance,  and  wreaths  that  decked 

Porch,  door-way,  or  kirk-pillar ;  and  of  youths, 

Each  with  his  maid,  before  the  sun  was  up, 

By  annual  custom,  issuing  forth  in  troops, 

To  drink  the  waters  of  some  sainted  well 

And  hang  it  round  with  garlands.     Love  survives ; 

But,  for  such  purpose,  flowers  no  longer  grow : 

The  times,  too  sage,  perhaps  too  proud,  have  dropped 

These  lighter  graces  ;  and  the  rural  ways 

And  manners  which  my  childhood  looked  upon          160 

Were  the  unluxuriant  produce  of  a  life 

Intent  on  little  but  substantial  needs, 

Yet  rich  in  beauty,  beauty  that  was  felt. 

But  images  of  danger  and  distress, 

Man  suffering  among  awful  Powers  and  Forms ; 

Of  this  I  heard,  and  saw  enough  to  make 

Imagination  restless  ;  nor  was  free 

Myself  from  frequent  perils ;  nor  were  tales 

Wanting,  —  the  tragedies  of  former  times, 

Hazards  and  strange  escapes,  of  which  the  rocks        170 

Immutable  and  overflowing  streams, 

Where'er  I  roamed,  were  speaking  monuments. 


BOOK  EIGHTH.  159 

Smooth  life  had  flock  and  shepherd  in  old  time, 
Long  springs  and  tepid  winters,  on  the  banks 
Of  delicate  Galesus ;  and  no  less 
Those  scattered  along  Adria's  myrtle  shores  : 
Smooth  life  had  herdsman,  and  his  snow-white  herd 
To  triumphs  and  to  sacrificial  rites 
Devoted,  on  the  inviolable  stream 

Of  rich  Clitumnus  ;  and  the  goat-herd  lived  180 

As  calmly,  underneath  the  pleasant  brows 
Of  cool  Lucretilis,  where  the  pipe  was  heard 
Of  Pan,  Invisible  God,  thrilling  the  rocks 
With  tutelary  music,  from  all  harm 
The  fold  protecting.     I  myself,  mature 
In  manhood  then,  have  seen  a  pastoral  track 
Like  some  of  these,  where  Fancy  might  run  wild, 
Though  under  skies  less  generous,  less  serene ; 
There,  for  her  own  delight  had  Nature  framed 
A  pleasure-ground,  diffused  a  fair  expanse  190 

Of  level  pasture,  islanded  with  groves 
And  banked  with  woody  risings ;  but  the  Plain 
Endless,  here  opening  widely  out,  and  there 
Shut  up  in  lesser  lakes  or  beds  of  lawn 
And  intricate  recesses,  creek  or  bay 
Sheltered  within  a  shelter,  where  at  large 
The  shepherd  strays,  a  rolling  hut  his  home. 
Thither  he  comes  with  spring-time,  there  abides 
All  summer,  and  at  sunrise  ye  may  hear 
His  flageolet  to  liquid  notes  of  love  200 

Attuned,  or  sprightly  fife  resounding  far. 
Nook  is  there  none,  nor  tract  of  that  vast  space 
Where  passage  opens,  but  the  same  shall  have 


160  THE  PRELUDE. 

In  turn  its  visitant,  telling  there  his  hours 

In  unlaborious  pleasure,  with  no  task 

More  toilsome  than  to  carve  a  beechen  bowl 

For  spring  or  fountain,  which  the  traveller  finds, 

When  through  the  region  he  pursues  at  will 

His  devious  course.     A  glimpse  of  such  sweet  life 

I  saw  when,  from  the  melancholy  walls  210 

Of  Goslar,  once  imperial,  I  renewed 

My  daily  walk  along  that  wide  champaign, 

That,  reaching  to  her  gates,  spreads  east  and  west, 

And  northwards,  from  beneath  the  mountainous  verge 

Of  the  Hercynian  forest.     Yet,  hail  to  you 

Moors,  mountains,  headlands,  and  ye  hollow  vales, 

Ye  long  deep  channels  for  the  Atlantic's  voice, 

Powers  of  my  native  region  !     Ye  that  seize 

The  heart  with  firmer  grasp  !     Your  snows  and  streams 

Ungovernable,  and  your  terrifying  winds,  220 

That  howl  so  dismally  for  him  who  treads 

Companionless  your  awful  solitudes  ! 

There,  'tis  the  shepherd's  task  the  winter  long 

To  wait  upon  the  storms  :  of  their  approach 

Sagacious,  into  sheltering  coves  he  drives 

His  flock,  and  thither  from  the  homestead  bears 

A  toilsome  burden  up  the  craggy  ways, 

And  deals  it  out  their  regular  nourishment 

Strewn  on  the  frozen  snow.     And  when  the  spring 

Looks  out,  and  all  the  pastures  dance  with  lambs,      230 

And  when  the  flock,  with  warmer  weather,  climbs 

Higher  and  higher,  him  his  office  leads 

To  watch  their  goings,  whatsoever  track 

The  wanderers  choose.     For  this  he  quits  his  home 


BOOK  EIGHTH.  161 

At  day-spring,  and  no  sooner  doth  the  sun 

Begin  to  strike  him  with  a  fire-like  heat, 

Than  he  lies  down  upon  some  shining  rock, 

And  breakfasts  with  his  dog.     When  they  have  stolen, 

As  is  their  wont,  a  pittance  from  strict  time, 

For  rest  not  needed  or  exchange  of  love,  240 

Then  from  his  couch  he  starts ;  and  now  his  feet 

Crush  out  a  livelier  fragrance  from  the  flowers 

Of  lowly  thyme,  by  Nature's  skill  enwrought 

In  the  wild  turf;  the  lingering  dews  of  morn 

Smoke  round  him,  as  from  hill  to  hill  he  hies, 

His  staff  protending  like  a  hunter's  spear, 

Or  by  its  aid  leaping  from  crag  to  crag, 

And  o'er  the  brawling  beds  of  unbridged  streams. 

Philosophy,  methinks,  at  Fancy's  call, 

Might  deign  to  follow  him  through  what  he  does        250 

Or  sees  in  his  day's  march  ;  himself  he  feels, 

In  those  vast  regions  where  his  service  lies, 

A  freeman,  wedded  to  his  life  of  hope 

And  hazard,  and  hard  labor  interchanged 

With  that  majestic  indolence  so  dear 

To  native  man.     A  rambling  school-boy,  thus 

I  felt  his  presence  in  his  own  domain, 

As  of  a  lord  and  master,  or  a  power, 

Or  genius,  under  Nature,  under  God, 

Presiding  ;  and  severest  solitude  260 

Had  more  commanding  looks  when  he  was  there 

When  up  the  lonely  brooks  on  rainy  days 

Angling  I  went,  or  trod  the  trackless  hills 

By  mists  bewildered,  suddenly  mine  eyes 

Have  glanced  upon  him  distant,  a  few  steps, 


162  THE  PRELUDE. 

In  size  a  giant,  stalking  through  thick  fog, 

His  sheep  like  Greenland  bears ;  or,  as  he  stepped 

Beyond  the  boundary  line  of  some  hill  shadow, 

His  form  hath  flashed  upon  me,  glorified 

By  the  deep  radiance  of  the  setting  sun ;  270 

Or  him  have  I  descried  in  distant  sky, 

A  solitary  object  and  sublime. 

Above  all  height !  like  an  aerial  cross 

Stationed  alone  upon  a  spiry  rock 

Of  the  Chartreuse,  for  worship.     Thus  was  man 

Ennobled  outwardly  before  my  sight, 

And  thus  my  heart  was  early  introduced 

To  an  unconscious  love  and  reverence 

Of  human  nature ;  hence  the  human  form 

To  me  became  an  index  of  delight,  280 

Of  grace  and  honor,  power  and  worthiness. 

Meanwhile  this  creature  —  spiritual  almost 

As  those  of  books,  but  more  exalted  far ; 

Far  more  of  an  imaginative  form 

Than  the  gay  Corin  of  the  groves,  who  lives 

For  his  own  fancies,  or  to  dance  by  the  hour, 

In  coronal,  with  Phyllis  in  the  midst  — 

Was,  for  the  purposes  of  kind,  a  man 

With  the  most  common  ;  husband,  father ;  learned, 

Could  teach,  admonish  ;  suffered  with  the  rest  290 

From  vice  and  folly,  wretchedness  and  fear ; 

Of  this  I  little  saw,  cared  less  for  it, 

But  something  must  have  felt. 

Call  ye  these  appearances  — 
Which  I  beheld  of  shepherds  in  my  youth, 
This  sanctity  of  Nature  given  to  man  — 


BOOK  EIGHTH.  163 

A  shadow,  a  delusion,  ye  who  pore 

On  the  dead  letter,  miss  the  spirit  of  things ; 

Whose  truth  is  not  a  motion  or  a  shape 

Instinct  with  vital  functions,  but  a  block 

Or  waxen  image  which  yourselves  have  made,  300 

And  ye  adore  !  But  blessed  be  the  God 

Of  Nature  and  of  Man  that  this  was  so  ; 

That  men  before  my  inexperienced  eyes 

Did  first  present  themselves  thus  purified, 

Removed,  and  to  a  distance  that  was  fit : 

And  so  we  all  of  us  in  some  degree 

Are  led  to  knowledge,  wheresoever  led, 

And  howsoever ;  were  it  otherwise, 

And  we  found  evil  fast  as  we  find  good 

In  our  first  years,  or  think  that  it  is  found,  310 

How  could  the  innocent  heart  bear  up  and  live  ! 

But  doubly  fortunate  my  lot ;  not  here 

Alone,  that  something  of  a  better  life 

Perhaps  was  round  me  than  it  is  the  privilege 

Of  most  to  move  in,  but  that  first  I  looked 

At  Man  through  objects  that  were  great  or  fair ; 

First  communed  with  him  by  their  help.     And  thus 

Was  founded  a  sure  safeguard  and  defence 

Against  the  weight  of  meanness,  selfish  cares, 

Coarse  manners,  vulgar  passions,  that  beat  in  320 

On  all  sides  from  the  ordinary  world 

In  which  we  traffic.     Starting  from  this  point 

I  had  my  face  turned  toward  the  truth,  began 

With  an  advantage  furnished  by  that  kind 

Of  prepossession,  without  which  the  soul 

Receives  no  knowledge  that  can  bring  forth  good, 


164  THE  PRELUDE. 

No  genuine  insight  ever  comes  to  her. 

From  the  restraint  of  over- watchful  eyes 

Preserved,  I  moved  about,  year  after  year, 

Happy,  and  now  most  thankful  that  my  walk  330 

Was  guarded  from  too  early  intercourse 

With  the  deformities  of  crowded  life, 

And  those  ensuing  laughters  and  contempts, 

Self-pleasing,  which,  if  we  would  wish  to  think 

With  a  due  reverence  on  earth's  rightful  lord, 

Here  placed  to  be  the  inheritor  of  heaven, 

Will  not  permit  us ;  but  pursue  the  mind, 

That  to  devotion  willingly  would  rise, 

Into  the  temple  and  the  temple's  heart. 

Yet  deem  riot,  friend  !  that  human  kind  with  me    340 
Thus  early  took  a  place  pre-eminent ; 
Nature  herself  was,  at  this  unripe  time, 
But  secondary  to  my  own  pursuits 
And  animal  activities,  and  all 

Their  trivial  pleasure  ;  and  when  these  had  dropped 
And  gradually  expired,  and  Nature,  prized 
For  her  own  sake,  became  my  joy,  even  then  — 
And  upwards  through  late  youth,  until  not  less 
Than  two-and-twenty  summers  had  been  told  — 
Was  Man  in  my  affections  and  regards  350 

Subordinate  to  her,  her  visible  forms 
And  viewless  agencies  :  a  passion,  she, 
A  rapture  often,  and  immediate  love 
Ever  at  hand ;  he,  only  a  delight 
Occasional,  an  accidental  grace, 
His  hour  being  not  yet  come.     Far  less  had  then 


BOOK  EIGHTH.  165 

The  inferior  creatures,  beast  or  bird,  attuned 

My  spirit  to  that  gentleness  of  love 

(Though  they  had  long  been  carefully  observed), 

Won  from  me  those  minute  obeisances  360 

Of  tenderness,  which  I  may  number  now 

With  my  first  blessings.     Nevertheless,  on  these 

The  light  of  beauty  did  not  fall  in  vain, 

Or  grandeur  circumfuse  them  to  no  end. 

But  when  that  first  poetic  faculty 
Of  plain  Imagination  and  severe, 
No  longer  a  mute  influence  of  the  soul, 
Ventured,  at  some  rash  Muse's  earnest  call, 
To  try  her  strength  among  harmonious  words ; 
And  to  book-notions  and  the  rules  of  art  37° 

Did  knowingly  conform  itself,  there  came 
Among  the  simple  shapes  of  human  life 
A  wilfulness  of  fancy  and  conceit ; 
And  Nature  and  her  objects  beautified 
These  fictions,  as  in  some  sort,  in  their  turn, 
They  burnished  her.     From  touch  of  this  new  power 
Nothing  was  safe  :  the  elder-tree  that  grew 
Beside  the  well-known  charnel-house  had  then 
A  dismal  look :  the  yew-tree  had  its  ghost, 
That  took  his  station  there  for  ornament :  380 

The  dignities  of  plain  occurrence  then 
Were  tasteless,  and  truth's  golden  mean,  a  point 
Where  no  sufficient  pleasure  could  be  found. 
Then,  if  a  widow,  staggering  with  the  blow 
Of  her  distress,  was  known  to  have  turned  her  steps 
To  the  cold  grave  in  which  her  husband  slept, 


166  THE  PRELUDE. 

One  night,  or  haply  more  than  one,  through  pain 

Or  half-insensate  impotence  of  mind, 

The  fact  was  caught  at  greedily,  and  there 

She  must  be  visitant  the  whole  year  through,  390 

Wetting  the  turf  with  never-ending  tears. 

Through  quaint  obliquities  I  might  pursue 
These  cravings  ;  when  the  fox-glove,  one  by  one, 
Upwards  through  every  stage  of  the  tall  stem, 
Had  shed  beside  the  public  way  its  bells, 
And  stood  of  all  dismantled,  save  the  last 
Left  at  the  tapering  ladder's  top,  that  seemed 
To  bend  as  doth  a  slender  blade  of  grass 
Tipped  with  a  rain-drop,  Fancy  loved  to  seat, 
Beneath  the  plant  despoiled,  but  crested  still  400 

With  this  last  relic,  soon  itself  to  fall, 
Some  vagrant  mother,  whose  arch  little  ones, 
All  unconcerned  by  her  dejected  plight, 
Laughed  as  with  rival  eagerness  their  hands 
Gathered  the  purple  cups  that  round  them  lay, 
Strewing  the  turf's  green  slope. 

A  diamond  light 

(Whene'er  the  summer  sun,  declining,  smote 
A  smooth  rock  wet  with  constant  springs)  was  seen 
Sparkling  from  out  a  copse-clad  bank  that  rose 
Fronting  our  cottage.     Oft  beside  the  hearth  410 

Seated,  with  open  door,  often  and  long 
Upon  this  restless  lustre  have  I  gazed, 
That  made  my  fancy  restless  as  itself. 
'Twas  now  for  me  a  burnished  silver  shield 
Suspended  over  a  knight's  tomb,  who  lay 


BOOK  EIGHTH.  167 

Inglorious,  buried  in  the  dusky  wood  : 

An  entrance  now  into  some  magic  cave 

Or  palace  built  by  fairies  of  the  rock ; 

Nor  could  I  have  been  bribed  to  disenchant 

The  spectacle,  by  visiting  the  spot.  420 

Thus  wilful  Fancy,  in  no  hurtful  mood, 

Engrafted  far-fetched  shapes  on  feelings  bred 

By  pure  Imagination  :  busy  Power 

She  was,  and  with  her  ready  pupil  turned 

Instinctively  to  human  passions,  then 

Least  understood.     Yet,  'mid  the  fervent  swarm 

Of  these  vagaries,  with  an  eye  so  rich 

As  mine  was  through  the  bounty  of  a  grand 

And  lovely  region,  I  had  forms  distinct 

To  steady  me  :  each  airy  thought  revolved  430 

Round  a  substantial  centre,  which  at  once 

Incited  it  to  motion,  and  controlled. 

I  did  not  pine  like  one  in  cities  bred, 

As  was  thy  melancholy  lot,  dear  Friend  ! 

Great  Spirit  as  thou  art,  in  endless  dreams 

Of  sickliness,  disjoining,  joining,  things 

Without  the  light  of  knowledge.     Where  the  harm 

If,  when  the  woodman  languished  with  disease, 

Induced  by  sleeping  nightly  on  the  ground 

Within  his  sod-built  cabin,  Indian-wise,  44° 

I  called  the  pangs  of  disappointed  love, 

And  all  the  sad  etcetera  of  the  wrong, 

To  help  him  to  his  grave  ?     Meanwhile  the  man, 

If  not  already  from  the  wood  retired 

To  die  at  home,  was  haply  as  I  knew, 

Withering  by  slow  degrees,  'mid  gentle  airs, 


168  THE  PRELUDE. 

Birds,  running  streams,  and  hills  so  beautiful 

On  golden  evenings,  while  the  charcoal  pile 

Breathed  up  its  smoke,  an  image  of  his  ghost 

Or  spirit  that  full  soon  must  take  her  flight.  450 

Nor  shall  we  not  be  tending  towards  that  point 

Of  sound  humanity  to  which  our  Tale 

Leads,  though  by  sinuous  ways,  if  here  I  show 

How  Fancy,  in  a  season  when  she  wove 

Those  slender  cords,  to  guide  the  unconscious  Boy 

For  the  Man's  sake,  could  feed  at  Nature's  call 

Some  pensive  musings,  which  might  well  beseem 

Maturer  years. 

A  grove  there  is  whose  boughs 
Stretch  from  the  western  marge  of  Thurstonmere, 
With  length  of  shade  so  thick  that  whoso  glides         460 
Along  the  line  of  low-roofed  water,  moves 
As  in  a  cloister.     Once  —  while,  in  that  shade 
Loitering,  I  watched  the  golden  beams  of  light 
Flung  from  the  setting  sun,  as  they  reposed 
In  silent  beauty  on  the  naked  ridge 
Of  a  high  eastern  hill  —  thus  flowed  my  thoughts 
In  a  pure  stream  of  words  fresh  from  the  heart : 
Dear  native  Regions,  wheresoe'er  shall  close 
My  mortal  course,  there  will  I  think  on  you ; 
Dying,  will  cast  on  you  a  backward  look ;  470 

Even  as  this  setting  sun  (albeit  the  Vale 
Is  nowhere  touched  by  one  memorial  gleam) 
Doth  with  the  fond  remains  of  his  last  power 
Still  linger,  and  a  farewell  lustre  sheds 
On  the  dear  mountain-tops  where  first  he  rose. 


BOOK  EIGHTH.  169 

Enough  of  humble  arguments ;  recall, 
My  Song  !  those  high  emotions  which  thy  voice 
Has  heretofore  made  known  ;  that  bursting  forth 
Of  sympathy,  inspiring  and  inspired, 
When  everywhere  a  vital  pulse  was  felt,  480 

And  all  the  several  frames  of  things,  like  stars, 
Through  every  magnitude  distinguishable, 
Shone  mutually  indebted,  or  half  lost 
Each  in  the  other's  blaze,  a  galaxy 
Of  life  and  glory.     In  the  midst  stood  Man, 
Outwardly,  inwardly  contemplated, 
As,  of  all  visible  natures,  crown,  though  born 
Of  dust,  and  kindred  to  the  worm ;  a  Being, 
Both  in  perception  and  discernment,  first 
In  every  capability  of  rapture,  490 

Through  the  divine  effect  of  power  and  love  ; 
As,  more  than  anything  we  know,  instinct 
With  godhead,  and,  by  reason  and  by  will, 
Acknowledging  dependency  sublime. 

Ere  long,  the  lonely  mountains  left,  I  move, 
Begirt,  from  day  to  day,  with  temporal  shapes 
Of  vice  and  folly  thrust  upon  my  view, 
Objects  of  sport,  and  ridicule,  and  scorn, 
Manners  and  characters  discriminate, 
And  little  bustling  passions  that  eclipse,  500 

As  well  they  might,  the  impersonated  thought, 
The  idea,  or  abstraction  of  the  kind. 

An  idler  among  academic  bowers, 
Such  was  my  new  condition,  as  at  large 


170  THE  PRELUDE. 

Has  been  set  forth  ;  yet  here  the  vulgar  light 

Of  present,  actual,  superficial  life, 

Gleaming  through  coloring  of  other  times, 

Old  usages  and  local  privilege, 

Was  welcomed,  softened,  if  not  solemnized, 

This  notwithstanding,  being  brought  more  near  510 

To  vice  and  guilt,  forerunning  wretchedness, 

I  trembled,  —  thought,  at  times,  of  human  life 

With  an  indefinite  terror  and  dismay, 

Such  as  the  storms  and  angry  elements 

Had  bred  in  me  ;  but  gloomier  far,  a  dim 

Analogy  to  uproar  and  misrule, 

Disquiet,  danger,  and  obscurity. 

It  might  be  told,  (but  wherefore  speak  of  things 
Common  to  all?)  that,  seeing,  I  was  led 
Gravely  to  ponder  —  judging  between  good  520 

And  evil,  not  as  for  the  mind's  delight, 
But  for  her  guidance  —  one  who  was  to  act, 
As  sometimes  to  the  best  of  feeble  means 
I  did,  by  human  sympathy  impelled  : 
And,  through  dislike  and  most  offensive  pain, 
Was  to  the  truth  conducted  ;  of  this  faith 
Never  forsaken,  that,  by  acting  well, 
And  understanding,  I  should  learn  to  love 
The  end  of  life,  and  everything  we  know. 

Grave  Teacher,  stern  Preceptress  !  for  at  times       530 
Thou  canst  put  on  an  aspect  most  severe ; 
London,  to  thee  I  willingly  return. 
Erewhile  my  verse  played  idly  with  the  flowers 


BOOK  EIGHTH.  171 

Enwrought  upon  thy  mantle ;  satisfied 

With  that  amusement,  and  a  simple  look 

Of  child-like  inquisition  now  and  then 

Cast  upwards  on  thy  countenance,  to  detect 

Some  inner  meanings  which  might  harbor  there. 

But  how  could  I  in  mood  so  light  indulge, 

Keeping  such  fresh  remembrance  of  the  day  54° 

When,  having  thridded  the  long  labyrinth 

Of  the  suburban  villages,  I  first 

Entered  thy  vast  dominions.     On  the  roof 

Of  an  itinerant  vehicle  I  sate, 

With  vulgar  men  about  me,  trivial  forms 

Of  houses,  pavement,  streets,  of  men  and  things,  — 

Mean  shapes  on  every  side ;  but,  at  the  instant 

When  to  myself  it  fairly  might  be  said, 

The  threshold  now  is  overpast,  (how  strange 

That  aught  external  to  the  living  mind  550 

Should  have  such  mighty  sway  !  yet  so  it  was), 

A  weight  of  ages  did  at  once  descend 

Upon  my  heart ;  no  thought  embodied,  no 

Distinct  remembrances,  but  weight  and  power,  — 

Power  growing  under  weight :  alas  !  I  feel 

That  I  am  trifling  :  'twas  a  moment's  pause,  — 

All  that  took  place  within  me  came  and  went 

As  in  a  moment ;  yet  with  Time  it  dwells, 

And  grateful  memory,  as  a  thing  divine. 

The  curious  traveller,  who,  from  open  day,  560 

Hath  passed  with  torches  into  some  huge  cave, 
The  Grotto  of  Antiparos,  or  the  Den 
In  old  time  haunted  by  that  Danish  Witch, 


172  THE  PRELUDE. 

Yordas  :  he  looks  around  and  sees  the  vault, 

Widening  on  all  sides ;  sees,  or  thinks  he  sees, 

Erelong,  the  massy  roof  above  his  head, 

That  instantly  unsettles  and  recedes,  — 

Substance  and  shadow,  light  and  darkness,  all 

Commingled,  making  up  a  canopy 

Of  shapes  and  forms  and  tendencies  to  shape  570 

That  shift  and  vanish,  change  and  interchange 

Like  spectres,  —  ferment  silent  and  sublime  ! 

That  after  a  short  space  works  less  and  less, 

Till,  every  effort,  every  motion  gone, 

The  scene  before  him  stands  in  perfect  view 

Exposed,  and  lifeless  as  a  written  book  !  — 

But  let  him  pause  awhile,  and  look  again, 

And  a  new  quickening  shall  succeed,  at  first 

Beginning  timidly,  then  creeping  fast, 

Till  the  whole  cave,  so  late  a  senseless  mass,  580 

Busies  the  eye  with  images  and  forms 

Boldly  assembled,  —  here  is  shadowed  forth 

From  the  projections,  wrinkles,  cavities, 

A  variegated  landscape,  —  there  the  shape 

Of  some  gigantic  warrior  clad  in  mail. 

The  ghostly  semblance  of  a  hooded  monk, 

Veiled  nun,  or  pilgrim  resting  on  his  staff : 

Strange  congregation  !  yet  not  slow  to  meet 

Eyes  that  perceive  through  minds  that  can  inspire. 

Even  in  such  sort  had  I  at  first  been  moved,  590 

Nor  otherwise  continued  to  be  moved, 
As  I  explored  the  vast  metropolis, 
Fount  of  my  country's  destiny  and  the  world's  : 


BOOK  EIGHTH.  173 

That  great  emporium,  chronicle  at  once 
And  burial-place  of  passions,  and  their  home 
Imperial,  their  chief  living  residence. 

With  strong  sensations  teeming  as  it  did 
Of  past  and  present,  such  a  place  must  needs 
Have  pleased  me,  seeking  knowledge  at  that  time 
Far  less  than  craving  power ;  yet  knowledge  came,    600 
Sought  or  unsought,  and  influxes  of  power 
Came,  of  themselves,  or  at  her  call  derived 
In  fits  of  kindliest  apprehensiveness, 
From  all  sides,  when  whate'er  was  in  itself 
Capacious  found,  or  seemed  to  find,  in  me 
A  correspondent  amplitude  of  mind  ; 
Such  is  the  strength  and  glory  of  our  youth  ! 
The  human  nature  unto  which  I  felt 
That  I  belonged,  and  reverenced  with  love, 
Was  not  a  punctual  presence,  but  a  spirit  610 

Diffused  through  time  and  space,  with  aid  derived 
Of  evidence  from  monuments,  erect, 
Prostrate,  or  leaning  towards  their  common  rest 
In  earth,  the  widely  scattered  wreck  sublime 
Of  vanished  nations,  or  more  clearly  drawn 
From  books  and  what  they  picture  and  record. 

'Tis  true,  the  history  of  our  native  land, 
With  those  of  Greece  compared  and  popular  Rome, 
And  in  our  high  wrought  modern  narratives 
Stript  of  their  harmonizing  soul,  the  life  620 

Of  manners  and  familiar  incidents, 
Had  never  much  delighted  me.     And  less 


174  THE  PRELUDE. 

Than  other  intellects  had  mine  been  used 

To  lean  upon  intrinsic  circumstance 

Of  record  or  tradition ;  but  a  sense 

Of  what  in  the  Great  City  had  been  done 

And  suffered,  and  was  doing,  suffering,  still, 

Weighed  with  me,  could  support  the  test  of  thought ; 

And,  in  despite  of  all  that  had  gone  by, 

Or  was  departing  never  to  return,  630 

There  I  conversed  with  majesty  and  power 

Like  independent  natures.     Hence  the  place 

Was  thronged  with  impregnations  like  the  Wilds 

In  which  my  early  feelings  had  been  nursed  — 

Bare  hills  and  valleys,  full  of  caverns,  rocks, 

And  audible  seclusions,  dashing  lakes, 

Echoes  and  waterfalls  and  pointed  crags 

That  into  music  touch  the  passing  wind. 

Here  then  my  young  imagination  found 

No  uncongenial  element  j  could  here  640 

Among  new  objects  serve  or  give  command, 

Even  as  the  heart's  occasions  might  require, 

To  forward  reason's  else  too-scrupulous  march. 

The  effect  was,  still  more  elevated  views 

Of  human  nature.     Neither  vice  nor  guilt, 

Debasement  undergone  by  body  or  mind, 

Nor  all  the  misery  forced  upon  my  sight, 

Misery  not  lightly  passed,  but  sometimes  scanned 

Most  feelingly,  could  overthrow  my  trust 

In  what  we  may  become  ;  induce  belief  650 

That  I  was  ignorant,  had  been  falsely  taught, 

A  solitary,  who  with  vain  conceits 

Had  been  inspired,  and  walked  about  in  dreams. 


BOOK  EIGHTH.  175 

From  those  sad  scenes  when  meditation  turned, 

Lo  !  everything  that  was  indeed  divine 

Retained  its  purity  inviolate, 

Nay  brighter  shone,  by  this  portentous  gloom 

Set  off;  such  opposition  as  aroused 

The  mind  of  Adam,  yet  in  Paradise 

Though  fallen  from  bliss,  when  in  the  East  he  saw     660 

Darkness  ere  day's  mid  course,  and  morning  light 

More  orient  in  the  western  cloud,  that  drew 

O'er  the  blue  firmament  a  radiant  white, 

Descending  slow  with  something  heavenly  fraught. 

Add  also,  that  among  the  multitudes 
Of  that  huge  city,  oftentimes  was  seen 
Affectingly  set  forth,  more  than  elsewhere 
Is  possible,  the  unity  of  man, 
One  spirit  over  ignorance  and  vice 
Predominant,  in  good  and  evil  hearts  ;  670 

One  sense  for  moral  judgments,  as  one  eye 
For  the  sun's  light.     The  soul  when  smitten  thus 
By  a  sublime  idea  whencesoe'er 
Vouchsafed  for  union  or  communion,  feeds 
On  the  pure  bliss,  and  takes  her  rest  with  God. 

Thus  from  a  very  early  age,  O  Friend  ! 
My  thoughts  by  slow  gradations  had  been  drawn 
To  human  kind,  and  to  the  good  and  ill 
Of  human  life,  Nature  had  led  me  on ; 
And  oft  amid  the  "busy  hum"  I  seemed  680 

To  travel  independent  of  her  help, 
As  if  I  had  forgotten  her ;  but  no, 


176  THE  PRELUDE. 

The  world  of  human-kind  outweighed  not  hers 
In  my  habitual  thoughts ;  the  scale  of  love, 
Though  filling  daily,  still  was  light,  compared 
With  that  in  which  her  mighty  objects  lay. 


BOOK  NINTH. 


RESIDENCE  IN  FRANCE. 

EVEN  as  a  river  —  partly  (it  might  seem) 

Yielding  to  old  remembrances,  and  swayed 

In  part  by  fear  to  shape  a  way  direct, 

That  would  engulph  him  soon  in  the  ravenous  sea — 

Turns,  and  will  measure  back  his  course,  far  back, 

Seeking  the  very  regions  which  he  crossed 

In  his  first  outset ;  so  have  we,  my  Friend, 

Turned  and  returned  with  intricate  delay. 

Or  as  a  traveller  who  has  gained  the  brow 

Of  some  aerial  Down,  while  there  he  halts 

For  breathing-time,  is  tempted  to  review 

The  region  left  behind  him ;  and,  if  aught 

Deserving  notice  have  escaped  regard, 

Or  been  regarded  with  too  careless  eye, 

Strives,  from  that  height,  with  one  and  yet  one  more 

Last  look,  to  make  the  best  amends  he  may  : 

So  have  we  lingered.     Now  we  start  afresh 

With  courage,  and  new  hope  risen  on  our  toil. 

Fair  greetings  to  this  shapeless  eagerness, 

Whene'er  it  comes  !  needful  in  work  so  long, 

Thrice  needful  to  the  argument  which  now 

Awaits  us  !     Oh,  how  much  unlike  the  past ! 


178  THE  PRELUDE. 

Free  as  a  colt  at  pasture  on  the  hill, 
I  ranged  at  large,  through  London's  wide  domain, 
Month  after  month.     Obscurely  did  I  live, 
Not  seeking  frequent  intercourse  with  men 
By  literature,  or  elegance,  or  rank, 
Distinguished.     Scarcely  was  a  year  thus  spent 
Ere  I  forsook  the  crowded  solitude, 
With  less  regret  for  its  luxurious  pomp,  30 

And  all  the  nicely  guarded  shows  of  art, 
Than  for  the  humble  book-stalls  in  the  streets, 
Exposed  to  eye  and  hand  where'er  I  turned. 

France  lured  me  forth ;  the  realm  that  I  had  crossed 
So  lately,  journeying  towards  the  snow-clad  Alps. 
But  now,  relinquishing  the  scrip  and  staff, 
And  all  enjoyment  which  the  summer  sun 
Sheds  round  the  steps  of  those  who  meet  the  day 
With  motion  constant  as  his  own,  I  went 
Prepared  to  sojourn  in  a  pleasant  town,  40 

Washed  by  the  current  of  the  stately  Loire. 

Through  Paris  lay  my  readiest  course,  and  there 
Sojourning  a  few  days,  I  visited 
In  haste  each  spot  of  old  or  recent  fame, 
The  latter  chiefly ;  from  the  field  of  Mars 
Down  to  the  suburbs  of  St.  Antony, 
And  from  Mont  Martre  southward  to  the  Dome 
Of  Genevieve.     In  both  her  clamorous  Halls, 
The  National  Synod  and  the  Jacobins, 
I  saw  the  Revolutionary  Power  5° 


BOOK  NINTH.  179 

Tossed  like  a  ship  at  anchor,  rocked  by  storms ; 

The  Arcades  I  traversed  in  the  Palace  huge 

Of  Orleans  ;  coasted  round  and  round  the  line 

Of  Tavern,  Brothel,  Gaming-house,  and  Shop, 

Great  rendezvous  of  worst  and  best,  the  walk 

Of  all  who  had  a  purpose,  or  had  not ; 

I  stared  and  listened,  with  a  stranger's  ears, 

To  Hawkers  and  Haranguers,  hubbub  wild  ! 

And  hissing  Factionists  with  ardent  eyes, 

In  knots,  or  pairs,  or  single.     Not  a  look  60 

Hope  takes,  or  Doubt  or  Fear  is  forced  to  wear, 

But  seemed  there  present ;  and  I  scanned  them  all, 

Watched  every  gesture  uncontrollable, 

Of  anger,  and  vexation,  and  despite, 

All  side  by  side,  and  struggling  face  to  face, 

With  gayety  and  dissolute  idleness. 

Where  silent  zephyrs  sported  with  the  dust 
Of  the  Bastile  I  sat  in  the  open  sun 
And  from  the  rubbish  gathered  up  a  stone, 
And  pocketed  the  relic,  in  the  guise  7° 

Of  an  enthusiast ;  yet,  in  honest  truth, 
I  looked  for  something  that  I  could  not  find, 
Affecting  more  emotion  than  I  felt ; 
For  'tis  most  certain  that  these  various  sights, 
However  potent  their  first  shock,  with  me 
Appeared  to  recompense  the  traveller's  pains 
Less  than  the  painted  Magdalene  of  Le  Brun, 
A  beauty  exquisitely  wrought,  with  hair 
Dishevelled,  gleaming  eyes,  and  rueful  cheek 
Pale  and  bedropped  with  overflowing  tears.  80 


180  THE  PRELUDE. 

But  hence  to  my  more  permanent  abode 
I  hasten ;  there,  by  novelties  in  speech, 
Domestic  manners,  customs,  gestures,  looks, 
And  all  the  attire  of  ordinary  life, 
Attention  was  engrossed ;  and,  thus  amused, 
I  stood  'mid  those  concussions,  unconcerned, 
Tranquil  almost,  and  careless  as  a  flower 
Glassed  in  a  green-house,  or  a  parlor  shrub 
That  spreads  its  leaves  in  unmolested  peace, 
While  every  bush  and  tree,  the  country  through,          90 
Is  shaking  to  the  roots  :  indifference  this 
Which  may  seem  strange ;  but  I  was  unprepared 
With  needful  knowledge,  had  abruptly  passed 
Into  a  theatre  whose  stage  was  filled 
And  busy  with  an  action  far  advanced. 
Like  others,  I  had  skimmed,  and  sometimes  read 
With  care,  the  master  pamphlets  of  the  day ; 
Nor  wanted  such  half-insight  as  grew  wild 
Upon  that  meagre  soil,  helped  out  by  talk 
And  public  news ;  but  having  never  seen  100 

A  chronicle  that  might  suffice  to  show 
Whence  the  main  organs  of  the  public  power 
Had  sprung,  their  transmigrations,  when  and  how 
Accomplished,  giving  thus  unto  events 
A  form  and  body ;  all  things  were  to  me 
Loose  and  disjointed,  and  the  affections  left 
Without  a  vital  interest.     At  that  time, 
Moreover,  the  first  storm  was  overblown, 
And  the  strong  hand  of  outward  violence 
Locked  up  in  quiet.     For  myself,  I  fear  no 

Now  in  connection  with  so  great  a  theme 


BOOK  NINTH.  181 

To  speak  (as  I  must  be  compelled  to  do) 

Of  one  so  unimportant ;  night  by  night 

Did  I  frequent  the  formal  haunts  of  men, 

Whom,  in  the  city,  privilege  of  birth 

Sequestered  from  the  rest,  societies 

Polished  in  arts,  and  in  punctilio  versed ; 

Whence,  and  from  deeper  causes,  all  discourse 

Of  good  and  evil  of  the  time  was  shunned 

With  scrupulous  care  :  but  these  restrictions  soon       120 

Proved  tedious,  and  I  gradually  withdrew 

Into  a  noisier  world,  and  thus  ere  long 

Became  a  patriot ;  and  my  heart  was  all 

Given  to  the  people,  and  my  love  was  theirs. 

A  band  of  military  Officers, 
Then  stationed  in  the  city,  were  the  chief 
Of  my  associates  :  some  of  these  wore  swords 
That  had  been  seasoned  in  the  wars,  and  all 
Were  men  well-born  ;  the  chivalry  of  France. 
In  age  and  temper  differing,  they  had  yet  130 

One  spirit  ruling  in  each  heart ;  alike 
(Save  only  one,  hereafter  to  be  named) 
Were  bent  upon  undoing  what  was  done  : 
This  was  their  rest  and  only  hope  ;  therewith 
No  fear  had  they  of  bad  becoming  worse, 
For  worst  to  them  was  come  ;  nor  would  have  stirred, 
Or  deemed  it  worth  a  moment's  thought  to  stir, 
In  anything,  save  only  as  the  act 
Looked  thitherward.     One,  reckoning  by  years, 
Was  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  and  erewhile  140 

He  had  sate  lord  in  many  tender  hearts ; 


182  THE  PRELUDE. 

Though  heedless  of  such  honors  now,  and  changed  : 

His  temper  was  quite  mastered  by  the  times, 

And  they  had  blighted  him,  had  eaten  away 

The  beauty  of  his  person,  doing  wrong 

Alike  to  body  and  to  mind  :  his  port, 

Which  once  had  been  erect  and  open,  now 

Was  stooping  and  contracted,  and  a  face, 

Endowed  by  Nature  with  her  fairest  gifts 

Of  symmetry  and  light  and  bloom,  expressed,  150 

As  much  as  any  that  was  ever  seen, 

A  ravage  out  of  season,  made  by  thoughts 

Unhealthy  and  vexatious.     With  the  hour 

That  from  the  press  of  Paris  duly  brought 

Its  freight  of  public  news,  the  fever  came, 

A  punctual  visitant,  to  shake  this  man, 

Disarmed  his  voice  and  fanned  his  yellow  cheek 

Into  a  thousand  colors  ;  while  he  read, 

Or  mused,  his  sword  was  haunted  by  his  touch 

Continually,  like  an  uneasy  place  160 

In  his  own  body.     'Twas  in  truth  an  hour 

Of  universal  ferment ;  mildest  men 

Were  agitated  ;  and  commotions, -strife 

Of  passion  and  opinion,  filled  the  walls 

Of  peaceful  houses  with  unquiet  sounds. 

The  soil  of  common  life  was,  at  that  time, 

Too  hot  to  tread  upon.     Oft  said  I  then, 

And  not  then  only,  "  What  a  mockery  this 

Of  history,  the  past  and  that  to  come  ! 

Now  do  I  feel  how  all  men  are  deceived,  170 

Reading  of  nations  and  their  works,  in  faith, 

Faith  given  to  vanity  and  emptiness  : 


BOOK  NINTH.  183 

Oh  !  laughter  for  the  page  that  would  reflect 

To  future  times  the  face  of  what  now  is  ! " 

The  land  all  swarmed  with  passion,  like  a  plain 

Devoured  by  locusts,  —  Carra,  Gorsas,  —  add 

A  hundred  other  names,  forgotten  now 

Nor  to  be  heard  of  more  ;  yet,  they  were  powers, 

Like  earthquakes,  shocks  repeated  day  by  day, 

And  felt  through  every  nook  of  town  and  field.  180 

Such  was  the  state  of  things.     Meanwhile  the  chief 
Of  my  associates  stood  prepared  for  flight, 
To  augment  the  band  of  emigrants  in  arms 
Upon  the  borders  of  the  Rhine,  and  leagued 
With  foreign  foes  mustered  for  instant  war. 
This  was  their  undisguised  intent,  and  they 
Were  waiting  with  the  whole  of  their  desires 
The  moment  to  depart. 

An  Englishman, 

Born  in  a  land  whose  very  name  appeared 
To  license  some  unruliness  of  mind  ;  190 

A  stranger,  with  youth's  further  privilege, 
And  the  indulgence  that  a  half-learnt  speech 
Wins  from  the  courteous ;  I,  who  had  been  else 
Shunned  and  not  tolerated,  freely  lived 
With  these  defenders  of  the  Crown,  and  talked, 
And  heard  their  notions ;  nor  did  they  disdain 
The  wish  to  bring  me  over  to  their  cause. 

But  though  untaught  by  thinking  or  by  books 
To  reason  well  of  polity  or  law, 


184  THE  PRELUDE. 

And  nice  distinctions,  then  on  every  tongue, 
Of  natural  rights  and  civil ;  and  to  acts 
Of  nations  and  their  passing  interests, 
(If  with  unworldly  ends  and  aims  compared) 
Almost  indifferent,  even  the  historian's  tale 
Prizing  but  little  otherwise  than  I  prized 
Tales  of  the  poets,  as  it  made  the  heart 
Beat  high,  and  filled  the  fancy  with  fair  forms, 
Old  heroes  and  their  sufferings  and  their  deeds, 
Yet  in  the  regal  sceptre,  and  the  pomp 
Of  orders  and  degrees,  I  nothing  found 
Then,  or  had  ever,  even  in  crudest  youth, 
That  dazzled  me,  but  rather  what  I  mourned 
And  ill  could  brook,  beholding  that  the  best 
Ruled  not,  and  feeling  that  they  ought  to  rule. 

For,  born  in  a  poor  district,  and  which  yet 
Retaineth  more  of  ancient  homeliness 
Than  any  other  nook  of  English  ground, 
It  was  my  fortune  scarcely  to  have  seen, 
Through  the  whole  tenor  of  my  school-day  time, 
The  face  of  one  who,  whether  boy  or  man, 
Was  vested  with  attention  or  respect 
Through  claims  of  wealth  or  blood ;  nor  was  it  least 
Of  many  benefits,  in  later  years 
Derived  from  academic  institutes 
And  rules,  that  they  held  something  up  to  view 
Of  a  Republic,  where  all  stood  thus  far 
Upon  equal  ground ;  that  we  were  brothers  all 
In  honor,  as  in  one  community, 
Scholars  and  gentlemen ;  where,  furthermore, 


BOOK  NINTH.  185 

Distinction  open  lay  to  all  that  came,  230 

And  wealth  and  titles  were  in  less  esteem 

Than  talents,  worth,  and  prosperous  industry. 

Add  unto  this,  subservience  from  the  first 

To  presences  of  God's  mysterious  power 

Made  manifest  in  Nature's  sovereignty, 

And  fellowship  with  venerable  books, 

To  sanction  the  proud  workings  of  the  soul, 

And  mountain  liberty.     It  could  not  be 

But  that  one  tutored  thus  should  look  with  awe 

Upon  the  faculties  of  man,  receive  240 

Gladly  the  highest  promises,  and  hail, 

As  best,  the  government  of  equal  rights 

And  individual  worth.     And  hence,  O  Friend  ! 

If  at  the  first  great  outbreak  I  rejoiced 

Less  than  might  well  befit  my  youth,  the  cause 

In  part  lay  here,  that  unto  me  the  events 

Seemed  nothing  out  of  nature's  certain  course, 

A  gift  that  was  come  rather  late  than  soon. 

No  wonder,  then,  if  advocates  like  these, 

Inflamed  by  passion,  blind  with  prejudice,  250 

And  stung  with  injury  at  this  riper  day, 

Were  impotent  to  make  my  hopes  put  on 

The  shape  of  theirs,  my  understanding  bend 

In  honor  to  their  honor  :  zeal,  which  yet 

Had  slumbered,  now  in  opposition  burst 

Forth  like  a  Polar  summer  :  every  word 

They  uttered  was  a  dart,  by  counter-winds 

Blown  back  upon  themselves  ;  their  reason  seemed 

Confusion-stricken  by  a  higher  power 

Than  human  understanding,  their  discourse  260 


186  THE  PRELUDE. 

Maimed,  spiritless ;  and  in  their  weakness  strong, 
I  triumphed. 

Meantime,  day  by  day,  the  roads 
Were  crowded  with  the  bravest  youth  of  France, 
And  all  the  promptest  of  her  spirits,  linked 
In  gallant  soldiership,  and  posting  on 
To  meet  the  war  upon  her  frontier  bounds. 
Yet  at  this  very  moment  do  tears  start 
Into  mine  eyes  :  I  do  not  say  I  weep,  — 
I  wept  not  then,  —  but  tears  have  dimmed  my  sight, 
In  memory  of  the  farewells  of  that  time,  270 

Domestic  severings,  female  fortitude 
At  dearest  separation,  patriot  love 
And  self-devotion,  and  terrestrial  hope, 
Encouraged  with  a  martyr's  confidence  ; 
Even  files  of  strangers  merely  seen  but  once, 
And  for  a  moment,  men  from  far  with  sound 
Of  music,  martial  tunes,  and  banners  spread, 
Entering  the  city,  here  and  there  a  face 
Or  person  singled  out  among  the  rest, 
Yet  still  a  stranger  and  beloved  as  such ;  380 

Even  by  these  passing  spectacles  my  heart 
Was  oftentimes  uplifted,  and  they  seemed 
Arguments  sent  from  Heaven  to  prove  the  cause 
Good,  pure,  which  no  one  could  stand  up  against, 
Who  was  not  lost,  abandoned,  selfish,  proud, 
Mean,  miserable,  wilfully  depraved, 
Hater  perverse  of  equity  and  truth. 

Among  that  band  of  Officers  was  one, 
Already  hinted  at,  of  other  mould  — 


BOOK  NINTH.  187 

A  patriot,  thence  rejected  by  the  rest,  290 

And  with  an  oriental  loathing  spurned, 

As  of  a  different  cast.     A  meeker  man 

Than  this  lived  never,  nor  a  more  benign, 

Meek  though  enthusiastic.     Injuries 

Made  him  more  gracious,  and  his  nature  then 

Did  breathe  its  sweetness  out  most  sensibly, 

As  aromatic  flowers  on  Alpine  turf, 

When  foot  hath  crushed  them.     He  through  the  events 

Of  that  great  change  wandered  in  perfect  faith, 

As  through  a  book,  an  old  romance,  or  tale  300 

Of  Fairy,  or  some  dream  of  actions  wrought 

Behind  the  summer  clouds.     By  birth  he  ranked 

With  the  most  noble,  but  unto  the  poor 

Among  mankind  he  was  in  service  bound, 

As  by  some  tie  invisible,  oaths  professed 

To  a  religious  order.     Man  he  loved 

As  man  ;  and,  to  the  mean  and  the  obscure, 

And  all  the  homely  in  their  homely  works, 

Transferred  a  courtesy  which  had  no  air 

Of  condescension  ;  but  did  rather  seem  310 

A  passion  and  a  gallantry,  like  that 

Which  he,  a  soldier,  in  his  idler  day 

Had  paid  to  woman  :  somewhat  vain  he  was, 

Or  seemed  so,  yet  it  was  not  vanity, 

But  fondness,  and  a  kind  of  radiant  joy 

Diffused  around  him,  while  he  was  intent 

On  words  of  love  or  freedom,  or  revolved 

Complacently  the  progress  of  a  cause 

Whereof  he  was  a  part :  yet  this  was  meek 

And  placid,  and  took  nothing  from  the  man  320 


188  THE  PRELUDE. 

That  was  delightful.     Oft  in  solitude 

With  him  did  I  discourse  about  the  end 

Of  civil  government,  and  its  wisest  forms ; 

Of  ancient  royalty,  and  chartered  rights, 

Custom  and  habit,  novelty  and  change ; 

Of  self-respect,  and  virtue  in  the  few 

For  patrimonial  honor  set  apart, 

And  ignorance  in  the  laboring  multitude. 

For  he,  to  all  intolerance  indisposed, 

Balanced  these  contemplations  in  his  mind ;  330 

And  I,  who  at  that  time  was  scarcely  dipped 

Into  the  turmoil,  bore  a  sounder  judgment 

Than  later  days  allowed  ;  carried  about  me 

With  less  alloy  to  its  integrity, 

The  experience  of  past  ages,  as,  through  help 

Of  books  and  common  life,  it  makes  sure  way 

To  youthful  minds,  by  objects  over  near 

Not  pressed  upon,  nor  dazzled  or  misled 

By  struggling  with  the  crowd  for  present  ends. 

But  though  not  deaf,  nor  obstinate  to  find  340 

Error  without  excuse  upon  the  side 
Of  them  who  strove  against  us,  more  delight 
We  took,  and  let  this  freely  be  confessed, 
In  painting  to  ourselves  the  miseries 
Of  royal  courts,  and  that  voluptuous  life 
Unfeeling,  where  the  man  who  is  of  soul 
The  meanest  thrives  the  most ;  where  dignity, 
True  personal  dignity,  abideth  not ; 
A  light,  a  cruel,  a  vain  world  cut  off 
From  the  natural  inlets  of  just  sentiment,  350 


BOOK  NINTH.  189 

From  lowly  sympathy  and  chastening  truth ; 

Where  good  and  evil  interchange  their  names, 

And  thirst  for  bloody  spoils  abroad  is  paired 

With  vice  at  home.     We  added  dearest  themes  — 

Man  and  his  noble  nature,  as  it  is 

The  gift  which  God  has  placed  within  his  power, 

His  blind  desires  and  steady  faculties 

Capable  of  clear  truth,  the  one  to  break 

Bondage,  the  other  to  build  liberty 

On  firm  foundations,  making  social  life,  360 

Through  knowledge  spreading  and  imperishable 

As  just  in  regulation  and  as  pure 

As  individual  in  the  wise  and  good. 

We  summed  up  the  honorable  deeds 
Of  ancient  Story,  thought  of  each  bright  spot, 
That  would  be  found  in  all  recorded  time, 
Of  truth  preserved  and  error  passed  away : 
Of  single  spirits  that  catch  the  flame  from  Heaven, 
And  how  the  multitudes  of  men  will  feed 
And  fan  each  other ;  thought  of  sects,  how  keen         370 
They  are  to  put  the  appropriate  nature  on, 
Triumphant  over  every  obstacle 
Of  custom,  language,  country,  love,  or  hate, 
And  what  they  do  and  suffer  for  their  creed  ; 
How  far  they  travel,  and  how  long  endure  ; 
How  quickly  mighty  Nations  have  been  formed, 
From  least  beginnings  ;  how,  together  locked 
By  new  opinions,  scattered  tribes  have  made 
One  body,  spreading  wide  as  clouds  in  heaven. 
To  aspirations  then  of  our  own  minds  380 


190  THE  PRELUDE. 

Did  we  appeal ;  and,  finally,  beheld 
A  living  confirmation  of  the  whole 
Before  us,  in  a  people  from  the  depth 
Of  shameful  imbecility  uprisen, 
Fresh  as  the  morning  star.     Elate  we  looked 
Upon  their  virtues  ;  saw,  in  rudest  men, 
Self-sacrifice  the  firmest ;  generous  love, 
And  continence  of  mind,  and  sense  of  right, 
Uppermost  in  the  midst  of  fiercest  strife. 

Oh,  sweet  it  is,  in  academic  groves,  390 

Or  such  retirement,  Friend  !  as  we  have  known 
In  the  green  dales  beside  our  Rotha's  stream, 
Greta,  or  Derwent,  or  some  nameless  rill, 
To  ruminate,  with  interchange  of  talk, 
On  rational  liberty,  and  hope  in  man, 
Justice  and  peace.     But  far  more  sweet  such  toil  — 
Toil,  say  I,  for  it  leads  to  thoughts  abstruse  — 
If  nature  then  be  standing  on  the  brink 
Of  some  great  trial,  and  we  hear  the  voice 
Of  one  devoted,  —  one  whom  circumstance  400 

Hath  called  upon  to  embody  his  deep  sense 
In  action,  give  it  outwardly  a  shape, 
And  that  of  benediction,  to  the  world 
Then  doubt  is  not,  and  truth  is  more  than  truth,  — 
A  hope  it  is,  and  a  desire  ;  a  creed 
Of  zeal,  by  an  authority  Divine 
Sanctioned,  of  danger,  difficulty,  or  death. 
Such  conversation,  under  Attic  shades, 
Did  Dion  hold  with  Plato  ;  ripened  thus 
For  a  Deliverer's  glorious  task,  —  and  such  410 


BOOK  NINTH.  191 

He,  on  that  ministry,  already  bound, 

Held  with  Eudemus  and  Timonides, 

Surrounded  by  adventurers  in  arms, 

When  those  two  vessels  with  their  daring  freight, 

For  the  Sicilian  Tyrant's  overthrow, 

Sailed  from  Zacynthus,  philosophic  war, 

Led  by  Philosophers.     With  harder  fate, 

Though  like  ambition,  such  was  he,  O  Friend  ! 

Of  whom  I  speak.     So  Beaupuis  (let  the  name 

Stand  near  the  worthiest  of  Antiquity)  420 

Fashioned  his  life  ;  and  many  a  long  discourse, 

With  like  persuasion  honored,  we  maintained : 

He,  on  his  part,  accoutred  for  the  worst, 

He  perished  fighting,  in  supreme  command, 

Upon  the  borders  of  the  unhappy  Loire, 

For  liberty,  against  deluded  men, 

His  fellow  country-men ;  and  yet  most  blessed 

In  this,  that  he,  for  the  fate  of  later  times 

Lived  not  to  see,  nor  what  we  now  behold, 

Who  have  as  ardent  hearts  as  he  had  then.  430 

Along  that  very  Loire,  with  festal  mirth 
Resounding  at  all  hours,  and  innocent  yet 
Of  civil  slaughter,  was  our  frequent  walk ; 
Or  in  wide  forests  of  continuous  shade, 
Lofty  and  over-arched,  with  open  space 
Beneath  the  trees,  clear  footing  many  a  mile  — 
A  solemn  region.     Oft  amid  those  haunts, 
From  earnest  dialogues  I  slipped  in  thought, 
And  let  remembrance  steal  to  other  times, 
When,  o'er  those  interwoven  roots,  moss-clad,  440 


192  THE  PRELUDE. 

And  smooth  as  marble  or  a  waveless  sea, 

Some  Hermit,  from  his  cell  forth-strayed,  might  pace 

In  sylvan  meditation  undisturbed ; 

As  on  the  pavement  of  a  Gothic  church 

Walks  a  lone  Monk,  when  service  hath  expired, 

In  peace  and  silence.     But  if  e'er  was  heard,  — 

Heard,  though  unseen,  —  a  devious  traveller, 

Retiring  or  approaching  from  afar 

With  speed  and  echoes  loud  of  trampling  hoofs 

From  the  hard  floor  reverberated,  then  450 

It  was  Angelica  thundering  through  the  woods 

Upon  her  palfrey,  or  that  gentle  maid 

Erminia,  fugitive  as  fair  as  she. 

Sometimes  methought  I  saw  a  pair  of  knights 

Joust  underneath  the  trees,  that  as  in  storm 

Rocked  high  above  their  heads ;  anon,  the  din 

Of  boisterous  merriment,  and  music's  roar, 

In  sudden  proclamation,  burst  from  haunt 

Of  Satyrs  in  some  viewless  glade,  with  dance 

Rejoicing  o'er  a  female  in  the  midst,  460 

A  mortal  beauty,  their  unhappy  thrall. 

The  width  of  those  huge  forests,  unto  me 

A  novel  scene,  did  often  in  this  way 

Master  my  fancy  while  I  wandered  on 

With  that  revered  companion.     And  sometimes  — 

When  to  a  convent  in  a  meadow  green, 

By  a  brook-side,  we  came,  a  roofless  pile, 

And  not  by  reverential  touch  of  Time 

Dismantled,  but  by  violence  abrupt  — 

In  spite  of  those  heart-bracing  colloquies,  470 

In  spite  of  real  fervor,  and  of  that 


BOOK  NINTH.  193 

Less  genuine  and  wrought  up  within  myself — 

I  could  not  but  bewail  a  wrong  so  harsh, 

And  for  the  Matin- bell  to  sound  no  more 

Grieved,  and  the  twilight  taper,  and  the  cross 

High  on  the  topmost  pinnacle,  a  sign 

(How  welcome  to  the  weary  traveller's  eyes  !) 

Of  hospitality  and  peaceful  rest. 

And  when  the  partner  of  those  varied  walks 

Pointed  upon  occasion  to  the  site  480 

Of  Romorentin,  home  of  ancient  kings, 

To  the  imperial  edifice  of  Blois, 

Or  to  that  rural  castle,  name  now  slipped 

From  my  remembrance,  where  a  lady  lodged, 

By  the  first  Francis  wooed,  and  bound  to  him 

In  chains  of  mutual  passion,  from  the  tower, 

As  a  tradition  of  the  country  tells, 

Practised  to  commune  with  her  royal  knight 

By  cressets  and  love -beacons,  intercourse 

'Twixt  her  high-seated  residence  and  his  490 

Far  off  at  Chambord  on  the  plain  beneath ; 

Even  here,  though  less  than  with  the  peaceful  house 

Religious,  'mid  those  frequent  monuments 

Of  Kings,  their  vices  and  their  better  deeds, 

Imagination,  potent  to  inflame 

At  times  with  virtuous  wrath  and  noble  scorn, 

Did  also  often  mitigate  the  force 

Of  civic  prejudice,  the  bigotry, 

So  call  it,  of  a  youthful  patriot's  mind ; 

And  on  these  spots  with  many  gleams  I  looked  500 

Of  chivalrous  delight.     Yet  not  the  less, 

Hatred  of  absolute  rule,  where  will  of  one 


194  .  THE  PRELUDE. 

Is  law  for  all,  and  of  that  barren  pride 

In  them  who,  by  immunities  unjust, 

Between  the  sovereign  and  the  people  stand, 

His  helper  and  not  theirs,  laid  stronger  hold 

Daily  upon  me,  mixed  with  pity  too 

And  love ;  for  where  hope  is,  there  love  will  be 

For  the  abject  multitude.     And  when  we  chanced 

One  day  to  meet  a  hunger-bitten  girl,  510 

Who  crept  along  fitting  her  languid  gait 

Unto  a  heifer's  motion,  by  a  cord 

Tied  to  her  arm,  and  picking  thus  from  the  lane 

Its  sustenance,  while  the  girl  with  pallid  hands 

Was  busy  knitting  in  a  heartless  mood 

Of  solitude,  and  at  the  sight  my  friend 

In  agitation  said,  "  'Tis  against  that 

That  we  are  fighting,"  I  with  him  believed 

That  a  benignant  spirit  was  abroad 

Which  might  not  be  withstood,  that  poverty  520 

Abject  as  this  would  in  a  little  time 

Be  found  no  more,  that  we  should  see  the  earth 

Unthwarted  in  her  wish  to  recompense 

The  meek,  the  lowly,  patient  child  of  toil, 

All  institutes  forever  blotted  out 

That  legalized  exclusion,  empty  pomp 

Abolished,  sensual  state  and  cruel  power, 

Whether  by  edict  of  the  one  or  few ; 

And  finally,  as  sum  and  crown  of  all, 

Should  see  the  people  having  a  strong  hand  530 

In  framing  their  own  laws ;  whence  better  days 

To  all  mankind.     But  these  things  set  apart, 

Was  not  this  single  confidence  enough 


BOOK  NINTH.  195 

To  animate  the  mind  that  ever  turned 

A  thought  to  human  welfare?     That  henceforth 

Captivity  by  mandate  without  law 

Should  cease  ;  and  open  accusation  lead 

To  sentence  in  the  hearing  of  the  world, 

And  open  punishment,  if  not  the  air 

Be  free  to  breathe  in,  and  the  heart  of  man  540 

Dread  nothing.     From  this  height  I  shall  not  stoop 

To  humbler  matter  that  detained  us  oft 

In  thought  or  conversation,  public  acts, 

And  public  persons,  and  emotions  wrought 

Within  the  breast,  as  ever-varying  winds 

Of  record  or  report  swept  over  us  ; 

But  I  might  here,  instead,  repeat  a  tale, 

Told  by  my  Patriot  friend,  of  sad  events 

That  prove  to  what  low  depth  had  struck  the  roots, 

How  widely  spread  the  boughs  of  that  old  tree  550 

Which,  as  a  deadly  mischief,  and  a  foul 

And  black  dishonor,  France  was  weary  of. 

Oh,  happy  time  of  youthful  lovers,  (thus 
The  story  might  begin,)  oh,  balmy  time, 
In  which  a  love-knot,  on  a  lady's  brow, 
Is  fairer  than  the  fairest  star  in  Heaven  ! 
So  might  —  and  with  that  prelude  did  begin 
The  record ;  and,  in  faithful  verse,  was  given 
The  doleful  sequel. 

But  our  little  bark 

On  a  strong  river  boldly  hath  been  launched ;  560 

And  from  the  driving  current  should  we  turn 
To  loiter  wilfully  within  a  creek, 


1%  THE  PRELUDE. 

Howe'er  attractive,  Fellow  voyager  ! 

Would'st  thou  chide  ?    Yet  deem  not  my  pains  lost : 

For  Vaudracour  and  Julia  (so  were  named 

The  ill-fated  pair)  in  that  plain  tale  will  draw 

Tears  from  the  hearts  of  others,  when  their  own 

Shall  beat  no  more.    Thou,  also,  there  mayst  read, 

At  leisure,  how  the  enamoured  youth  was  driven, 

By  public  power  abashed,  to  fatal  crime,  570 

Nature's  rebellion  against  monstrous  law ; 

How  between  heart  and  heart,  oppression  thrust 

Her  mandates,  severing  whom  true  love  had  joined, 

Harassing  both  ;  until  he  sank  and  pressed 

The  couch  his  fate  had  made  for  him ;  supine, 

Save  when  the  stings  of  viperous  remorse, 

Trying  their  strength,  enforced  him  to  start  up, 

Aghast  and  prayerless.     Into  a  deep  wood 

He  fled,  to  shun  the  haunts  of  human  kind ; 

There  dwelt,  weakened  in  spirit  more  and  more ;        580 

Nor  could  the  voice  of  Freedom,  which  through  France 

Full  speedily  resounded,  public  hope, 

Or  personal  memory  of  his  own  worst  wrongs, 

Rouse  him ;  but,  hidden  in  those  gloomy  shades, 

His  days  he  wasted,  —  an  imbecile  mind. 


BOOK  TENTH. 


RESIDENCE  IN  FRANCE.— Continued. 

IT  was  a  beautiful  and  silent  day 

That  overspread  the  countenance  of  earth, 

Then  fading  with  unusual  quietness,  — 

A  day  as  beautiful  as  e'er  was  given 

To  soothe  regret,  though  deepening  what  it  soothed, 

When  by  the  gliding  Loire  I  paused,  and  cast 

Upon  his  rich  domains,  vineyard  and  tilth, 

Green  meadow-ground,  and  many-colored  woods, 

Again,  and  yet  again,  a  farewell  look ; 

Then  from  the  quiet  of  that  scene  passed  on,  i« 

Bound  to  the  fierce  Metropolis.     From  his  throne 

The  King  had  fallen,  and  that  invading  host  — 

Presumptuous  cloud,  on  whose  black  front  was  written 

The  tender  mercies  of  the  dismal  wind 

That  bore  it  —  on  the  plains  of  Liberty 

Had  burst  innocuous.     Say  in  bolder  words, 

They  —  who  had  come  elate  as  eastern  hunters 

Banded  beneath  the  Great  Mogul,  when  he 

Erewhile  went  forth  from  Agra  or  Lahore, 

Rajahs  and  Omlahs  in  his  train,  intent  2 

To  drive  their  prey  enclosed  within  a  ring 


198  THE  PRELUDE. 

Wide  as  a  province,  but  the  signal  given, 

Before  the  point  of  the  life-threatening  spear 

Narrowing  itself  by  moments  —  they,  rash  men, 

Had  seen  the  anticipated  quarry  turned 

Into  avengers,  from  whose  wrath  they  fled 

In  terror.     Disappointment  and  dismay 

Remained  for  all  whose  fancies  had  run  wjld 

With  evil  expectations  ;  confidence 

And  perfect  triumph  for  the  better  cause.  30 

The  State,  as  if  to  stamp  the  final  seal 
On  her  security,  and  to  the  world 
Show  that  she  was,  a  high  and  fearless  soul, 
Exulting  in  defiance,  or  heart-stung 
By  sharp  resentment,  or  belike  to  taunt 
With  spiteful  gratitude  the  baffled  League, 
That  had  stirred  up  her  slackening  faculties 
To  a  new  transition,  when  the  King  was  crushed, 
Spared  not  the  empty  throne,  and  in  proud  haste 
Assumed  the  body  and  venerable  name  40 

Of  a  Republic.     Lamentable  crimes, 
'Tis  true,  had  gone  before  this  hour,  dire  work 
Of  massacre,  in  which  the  senseless  sword 
Was  prayed  to  as  a  judge ;  but  these  were  past, 
Earth  free  from  them  forever,  as  was  thought,  — 
Ephemeral  monsters,  to  be  seen  but  once  ! 
Things  that  could  only  show  themselves  and  die. 

Cheered  with  this  hope,  to  Paris  I  returned, 
And  ranged,  with  ardor  heretofore  unfelt, 
The  spacious  city,  and  in  progress  passed  50 


BOOK   TENTH.  199 

The  prison  where  the  unhappy  Monarch  lay, 

Associate  with  his  children  and  his  wife 

In  bondage  ;  and  the  palace,  lately*  stormed 

With  roar  of  cannon  by  a  furious  host. 

I  crossed  the  square  (an  empty  area  then  !) 

Of  the  Carrousel,  where  so  late  had  lain 

The  dead,  upon  the  dying  heaped,  and  gazed 

On  this  and  other  spots,  as  doth  a  man 

Upon  a  volume  whose  contents  he  knows 

Are  memorable,  but  from  him  locked  up,  60 

Being  written  in  a  tongue  he  cannot  read, 

So  that  he  questions  the  mute  leaves  with  pain, 

And  half  upbraids  their  silence.     But  that  night 

I  felt  most  deeply  in  what  world  I  was, 

What  ground  I  trod  on,  and  what  air  I  breathed. 

High  was  my  room  and  lonely,  near  the  roof 

Of  a  large  mansion  or  hotel,  a  lodge 

That  would  have  pleased  me  in  more  quiet  times ; 

Nor  was  it  wholly  without  pleasure  then. 

With  unextinguished  taper  I  kept  watch,  70 

Reading  at  intervals  :  the  fear  gone  by 

Pressed  on  me  almost  like  a  fear  to  come. 

I  thought  of  those  September  massacres, 

Divided  from  me  by  one  little  month, 

Saw  them  and  touched ;  the  rest  was  conjured  up 

From  tragic  fictions  or  true  history, 

Remembrances  and  dim  admonishments. 

The  horse  is  taught  his  manage,  and  no  star 

Of  wildest  course  but  treads  back  his  own  steps ; 

For  the  spent  hurricane  the  air  provides  80 

As  fierce  a  successor ;  the  tide  retreats 


200  THE  PRELUDE. 

But  to  return  out  of  its  hiding-place 

In  the  great  deep  ;  all  things  have  second  birth ; 

The  earthquake  Is  not  satisfied  at  once  ; 

And  in  this  way  I  wrought  upon  myself, 

Until  I  seemed  to  hear  a  voice  that  cried, 

To  the  whole  city,  "  Sleep  no  more."     The  trance 

Fled  with  the  voice  to  which  it  had  given  birth ; 

But  vainly  comments  of  a  calmer  mind 

Promised  soft  peace  and  sweet  forgetfulness.  90 

The  place,  all  hushed  and  silent  as  it  was, 

Appeared  unfit  for  the  repose  of  night, 

Defenceless  as  a  wood  where  tigers  roam. 

With  early  morning  towards  the  Palace-walk 
Of  Orleans  eagerly  I  turned ;  as  yet 
The  streets  were  still ;  not  so  those  long  Arcades ; 
There,  'mid  a  peal  of  ill-matched  sounds  and  cries, 
That  greeted  me  on  entering,  I  could  hear 
Shrill  voices  from  the  hawkers  in  the  throng, 
Bawling,  "  Denunciation  of  the  Crimes  100 

Of  Maximilian  Robespierre  ;  "  the  hand, 
Prompt  as  the  voice,  held  forth  a  printed  speech, 
The  same  that  had  been  recently  pronounced, 
When  Robespierre,  not  ignorant  for  what  mark 
Some  words  of  indirect  reproof  had  been 
Intended,  rose  in  hardihood,  and  dared 
The  man  who  had  an  ill  surmise  of  him 
To  bring  his  charge  in  openness ;  whereat, 
When  a  dead  pause  ensued,  and  no  one  stirred 
In  silence  of  all  present,  from  his  seat  no 

Louvet  walked  single  through  the  avenue, 


BOOK   TENTH.  201 

And  took  his  station  in  the  Tribune,  saying, 

"  I,  Robespierre,  accuse  thee  ! "     Well  is  known 

The  inglorious  issue  of  that  charge,  and  how 

He,  who  had  launched  the  startling  thunderbolt, 

The  one  bold  man,  whose  voice  the  attack  had  sounded, 

Was  left  without  a  follower  to  discharge 

His  perilous  duty,  and  retire  lamenting 

That  Heaven's  best  aid  is  wasted  upon  men 

Who  to  themselves  are  false. 

But  these  are  things     120 
Of  which  I  speak,  only  as  they  were  storm 
Or  sunshine  to  my  individual  mind, 
No  further.     Let  me  then  relate  that  now  — 
In  some  sort  seeing  with  my  proper  eyes 
That  Liberty,  and  Life,  and  Death  would  soon 
To  the  remotest  corners  of  the  land 
Lie  in  the  arbitrement  of  those  who  ruled 
The  capital  City ;  what  was  struggled  for, 
And  by  what  combatants  victory  must  be  won ; 
The  indecision  on  their  part  whose  aim  130 

Seemed  best,  and  the  straightforward  path  of  those 
Who  in  attack  or  in  defence  were  strong 
Through  their  impiety  —  my  inmost  soul 
Was  agitated  ;  yea,  I  could  almost 
Have  prayed  that  throughout  earth  upon  all  men, 
By  patient  exercise  of  reason  made 
Worthy  of  liberty,  all  spirits  filled 
With  zeal  expanding  in  Truth's  holy  light, 
The  gift  of  tongues  might  fall,  and  power  arrive 
From  the  four  quarters  of  the  winds  to  do  140 

For  France,  what  without  help  she  could  not  do, 


202  THE  PRELUDE. 

A  work  of  honor ;  think  not  that  to  this 
I  added,  work  of  safety ;  from  all  doubt 
Or  trepidation  for  the  end  of  things 
Far  was  I,  far  as  angels  are  from  guilt. 

Yet  did  I  grieve,  nor  only  grieved,  but  thought 
Of  opposition  and  of  remedies  : 
An  insignificant  stranger  and  obscure, 
And  one,  moreover,  little  graced  with  power 
Of  eloquence  even  in  my  native  speech,  150 

And  all  unfit  for  tumult  or  intrigue, 
Yet  would  I  at  this  time  with  willing  heart 
Have  undertaken  for  a  cause  so  great 
Service  however  dangerous.     I  revolved 
How  much  the  destiny  of  Man  had  still 
Hung  upon  single  persons  ;  that  there  was, 
Transcendent  to  all  local  patrimony, 
One  nature,  as  there  is  one  sun  in  heaven ; 
That  objects,  even  as  they  are  great,  thereby 
Do  come  within  the  reach  of  humblest  eyes ;  160 

That  Man  is  only  weak  through  his  mistrust 
And  want  of  hope  where  evidence  divine 
Proclaims  to  him  that  hope  should  be  most  sure ; 
Nor  did  the  inexperience  of  my  youth 
Preclude  conviction  that  a  spirit  strong 
In  hope  and  trained  to  noble  aspirations, 
A  spirit  thoroughly  faithful  to  itself, 
Is  for  Society's  unreasoning  herd 
A  domineering  instinct,  serves  at  once 
For  way  and  guide,  a  fluent  receptacle  170 

That  gathers  up  each  petty  straggling  rill 


BOOK   TENTH.  203 

And  vein  of  water,  glad  to  be  rolled  on 

In  safe  obedience ;  that  a  mind,  whose  rest 

Is  where  it  ought  to  be,  in  self-restraint, 

In  circumspection  and  simplicity, 

Falls  rarely  in  entire  discomfiture 

Below  its  aim,  or  meets  with,  from  without, 

A  treachery  that  foils  it  or  defeats  ; 

And,  lastly,  if  the  means  on  human  will, 

Frail  human  will,  dependent  should  betray  180 

Him  who  too  boldly  trusted  them,  I  felt 

That  'mid  the  loud  distractions  of  the  world 

A  sovereign  voice  subsists  within  the  soul, 

Arbiter  undisturbed  of  right  and  wrong, 

Of  life  and  death,  in  majesty  severe 

Enjoining,  as  may  best  promote  the  aims 

Of  truth  and  justice,  either  sacrifice, 

From  whatsoever  region  of  our  cares 

Or  our  infirm  affections  Nature  pleads, 

Earnest  and  blind,  against  the  stern  decree.  190 

On  the  other  side,  I  called  to  mind  those  truths 
That  are  the  common-places  of  the  schools  — 
(A  theme  for  boys,  too  hackneyed  for  their  sires,) 
Yet,  with  a  revelation's  liveliness, 
In  all  their  comprehensive  bearings  known 
And  visible  to  philosophers  of  old, 
Men  who,  to  business  of  the  world  untrained, 
Lived  in  the  shade ;  and  to  Harmodius  known 
And  his  compeer,  Aristogiton,  known 
To  Brutus  —  that  tyrannic  power  is  weak,  200 

Hath  neither  gratitude,  nor  faith,  nor  love, 


204  THE  PRELUDE. 

Nor  the  support  of  good  or  evil  men 
To  trust  in ;  that  the  godhead  which  is  ours 
Can  never  utterly  be  charmed  or  stilled ; 
That  nothing  hath  a  natural  right  to  last 
But  equity  and  reason  ;  that  all  else 
Meets  foes  irreconcilable,  and  at  best 
Lives  only  by  variety  of  disease. 

Well  might  my  wishes  be  intense,  my  thoughts 
Strong  and  perturbed,  not  doubting  at  that  time         210 
But  that  the  virtue  of  one  paramount  mind 
Would  have  abashed  those  impious  crests — have  quelled 
Outrage  and  bloody  power,  and  —  in  despite 
Of  what  the  People  long  had  been  and  were 
Through  ignorance  and  false  teaching,  sadder  proof 
Of  immaturity,  and  in  the  teeth 
Of  desperate  opposition  from  without  — 
Have  cleared  a  passage  for  just  government 
And  left  a  solid  birthright  to  the  State, 
Redeemed,  according  to  example  given  220 

By  ancient  lawgivers. 

In  this  frame  of  mind, 
Dragged  by  a  chain  of  harsh  necessity, 
So  seemed  it,  —  now  I  thankfully  acknowledge, 
Forced  by  the  gracious  providence  of  Heaven  — 
To  England  I  returned,  else  (though  assured 
That  I  both  was  and  must  be  of  small  weight, 
No  better  than  a  landsman  on  the  deck 
Of  a  ship  struggling  with  a  hideous  storm) 
Doubtless,  I  should  have  then  made  common  cause 
With  some  who  perished ;  haply  perished  too,  230 


BOOK   TENTH.  205 

A  poor  mistaken  and  bewildered  offering,  — 

Should  to  the  breast  of  Nature  have  gone  back, 

With  all  my  resolutions,  all  my  hopes, 

A  Poet  only  to  myself,  to  men 

Useless,  and  even,  beloved  Friend  !  a  soul 

To  thee  unknown  ! 

Twice  had  the  trees  let  fall 
Their  leaves,  as  often  Winter  had  put  on 
His  hoary  crown,  since  I  had  seen  the  surge 
Beat  against  Albion's  shore,  since  ear  of  mine 
Had  caught  the  accents  of  my  native  speech  240 

Upon  our  native  country's  sacred  ground. 
A  patriot  of  the  world,  how  could  I  glide 
Into  communion  with  her  sylvan  shades, 
Erewhile  my  tuneful  haunt?     It  pleased  me  more 
To  abide  in  the  great  City,  where  I  found 
The  general  air  still  busy  with  the  stir 
Of  that  first  memorable  onset  made 
By  a  strong  levy  of  humanity 
Upon  the  traffickers  in  Negro  blood ; 
Effort  which,  though  defeated,  had  recalled  250 

To  notice  old  forgotten  principles, 
And  through  the  nation  spread  a  novel  heat 
Of  virtuous  feeling.     For  myself,  I  own 
That  this  particular  strife  had  wanted  power 
To  rivet  my  affections  ;  nor  did  now 
Its  unsuccessful  issue  much  excite 
My  sorrow ;  for  I  brought  with  me  the  faith 
That,  if  France  prospered,  good  men  would  not  long 
Pay  fruitless  worship  to  humanity, 
And  this  most  rotten  branch  of  human  shame,  260 


206  THE  PRELUDE. 

Object,  so  seemed  it,  of  superfluous  pains, 

Would  fall  together  with  its  parent  tree. 

What,  then,  were  my  emotions,  when  in  arms 

Britain  put  forth  her  free-born  strength  in  league, 

Oh,  pity  and  shame  !  with  those  confederate  Powers. 

Not  in  my  single  self  alone  I  found, 

But  in  the  minds  of  all  ingenuous  youth, 

Change  and  subversion  from  that  hour.     No  shock 

Given  to  my  moral  nature  had  I  known 

Down  to  that  very  moment ;  neither  lapse  270 

Nor  turn  of  sentiment  that  might  be  named 

A  revolution,  save  at  this  one  time  ; 

All  else  was  progress  on  the  self-same  path 

On  which,  with  a  diversity  of  pace, 

I  had  been  travelling  :  this  a  stride  at  once 

Into  another  region.     As  a  light 

And  pliant  harebell,  swinging  in  the  breeze 

On  some  gray  rock  —  its  birth-place  —  so  had  I 

Wantoned,  fast  rooted  on  the  ancient  tower 

Of  my  beloved  country,  wishing  not  280 

A  happier  fortune  than  to  wither  there  : 

Nor  was  I  from  that  pleasant  station  torn 

And  tossed  about  in  whirlwind.     I  rejoiced, 

Yea,  afterwards  —  truth  most  painful  to  record  !  — 

Exulted,  in  the  triumph  of  my  soul. 

When  Englishmen  by  thousands  were  o'erthrown, 

Left  without  glory  on  the  field,  or  driven, 

Brave  hearts  !  to  shameful  flight.     It  was  a  grief,  — 

Grief  call  it  not,  'twas  anything  but  that,  — 

A  conflict  of  sensations  without  name,  290 

Of  which  he  only,  who  may  love  the  sight 


BOOK   TENTH.  207 

Of  a  village  steeple,  as  I  do,  can  judge, 

When,  in  the  congregation  bending  all 

To  their  great  Father,  prayers  were  offered  up, 

Or  praises  for  our  country's  victories ; 

And,  'mid  the  simple  worshippers,  perchance 

I  only,  like  an  uninvited  guest 

Whom  no  one  owned,  sate  silent ;  shall  I  add, 

Fed  on  the  day  of  vengeance  yet  to  come. 

Oh  !  much  have  they  to  account  for,  who  could  tear, 
By  violence,  at  one  decisive  rent,  301 

From  the  best  youth  in  England  their  dear  pride, 
Their  joy,  in  England  ;  this,  too,  at  a  time 
In  which  worst  losses  easily  might  wean 
The  best  of  names,  when  patriotic  love 
Did  of  itself  in  modesty  give  way, 
Like  the  Precursor  when  the  Deity 
Is  come  Whose  harbinger  he  was  ;  a  time 
In  which  apostasy  from  ancient  faith 
Seemed  but  conversion  to  a  higher  creed ;  310 

Withal  a  season  dangerous  and  wild, 
A  time  when  sage  Experience  would  have  snatched 
Flowers  out  of  any  hedge-row  to  compose 
A  chaplet  in  contempt  of  his  gray  locks. 

When  the  proud  fleet  that  bears  the  red-cross  flag 
In  that  unworthy  service  was  prepared 
To  mingle,  I  beheld  the  vessels  lie, 
A  brood  of  gallant  creatures,  on  the  deep ; 
I  saw  them  in  their  rest,  a  sojourner 


208  THE  PRELUDE. 

Through  a  whole  month  of  calm  and  glassy  days        320 

In  that  delightful  island  which  protects 

Their  place  of  convocation ;  there  I  heard, 

Each  evening,  pacing  by  the  still  sea-shore, 

A  monitory  sound  that  never  failed,  — 

The  sunset  cannon.     While  the  orb  went  down 

In  the  tranquillity  of  nature,  came 

That  voice,  ill  requiem  !  seldom  heard  by  me 

Without  a  spirit  overcast  by  dark 

Imaginations,  sense  of  woes  to  come, 

Sorrow  for  human  kind,  and  pain  of  heart.  330 

In  France,  the  men  who,  for  their  desperate  ends, 
Had  plucked  up  mercy  by  the  roots,  were  glad 
Of  this  new  enemy.     Tyrants,  strong  before 
In  wicked  pleas,  were  strong  as  demons  now ; 
And  thus,  on  every  side  beset  with  foes, 
The  goaded  land  waxed  mad  ;  the  crimes  of  few 
Spread  into  madness  of  the  many ;  blasts 
From  hell  became  sanctified  like  airs  from  heaven. 
The  sternness  of  the  just,  the  faith  of  those 
Who  doubted  not  that  Providence  had  times  340 

Of  vengeful  retribution,  theirs  who  throned 
The  human  Understanding  paramount, 
And  made  of  that  their  God,  the  hopes  of  men 
Who  were  content  to  barter  short-lived  pangs 
For  a  paradise  of  ages,  the  blind  rage 
Of  insolent  tempers,  the  light  vanity 
Of  intermeddlers,  steady  purposes 
Of  the  suspicious,  slips  of  the  indiscreet, 
And  all  the  accidents  of  life  were  pressed 


BOOK    TENTH.  209 

Into  one  service,  busy  with  one  work.  350 

The  Senate  stood  aghast,  her  prudence  quenched, 

Her  wisdom  stifled,  and  her  justice  scared, 

Her  frenzy  only  active  to  extol 

Past  outrages,  and  shape  the  way  for  new, 

Which  no  one  dared  to  oppose  or  mitigate. 

Domestic  carnage  now  filled  the  whole  year 
With  feast-days ;  old  men  from  the  chimney-nook, 
The  maiden  from  the  bosom  of  her  love, 
The  mother  from  the  cradle  of  her  babe, 
The  warrior  from  the  field  —  all  perished,  all —          360 
Friends,  enemies,  of  all  parties,  ages,  ranks, 
Head  after  head,  and  never  heads  enough 
For  those  that  bade  them  fall.     They  found  their  joy, 
They  made  it  proudly,  eager  as  a  child 
(If  like  desires  of  innocent  little  ones 
May  with  such  heinous  appetites  be  compared), 
Pleased  in  some  open  field  to  exercise 
A  toy  that  mimics  with  revolving  wings 
The  motion  of  a  wind-mill :  though  the  air 
Do  of  itself  blow  fresh,  and  make  the  vanes  370 

Spin  in  his  eyesight,  that  contents  him  not, 
But,  with  the  plaything  at  arm's  length,  he  sets 
His  front  against  the  blast,  and  runs  amain, 
That  it  may  whirl  the  faster. 

Amid  the  depth 

Of  those  enormities,  even  thinking  minds 
Forgot,  at  seasons,  whence  they  had  their  being ; 
Forgot  that  such  a  sound  was  ever  heard 
As  Liberty  upon  earth  :  yet  all  beneath 


210  THE  PRELUDE. 

Her  innocent  authority  was  wrought, 

Nor  could  have  been,  without  her  blessed  name.        380 

The  illustrious  wife  of  Roland,  in  the  hour 

Of  her  composure,  felt  that  agony, 

And  gave  it  vent  in  her  last  words.     O  Friend  ! 

It  was  a  lamentable  time  for  man, 

Whether  a  hope  had  e'er  been  his  or  not ; 

A  woful  time  for  them  whose  hopes  survived 

The  shock ;  most  woful  for  those  few  who  still 

Were  flattered,  and  had  trust  in  human  kind  : 

They  had  the  deepest  feeling  of  the  grief. 

Meanwhile  the  Invaders  fared  as  they  deserved  :        390 

The  Herculean  Commonwealth  had  put  forth  her  arms, 

And  throttled  with  an  infant  godhead's  might 

The  snakes  about  her  cradle  ;  that  was  well, 

And  as  it  should  be ;  yet  no  cure  for  them 

Whose  souls  were  sick  with  pain  of  what  would  be 

Hereafter  brought  in  charge  against  mankind. 

Most  melancholy  at  that  time,  O  Friend  ! 

Were  my  day-thoughts,  —  my  nights  were  miserable  ; 

Through  months,  through  years,  long  after  the  last  beat 

Of  those  atrocities,  the  hour  of  sleep  400 

To  me  came  rarely  charged  with  natural  gifts, 

Such  ghastly  visions  had  I  of  despair 

And  tyranny,  and  implements  of  death ; 

And  innocent  victims  sinking  under  fear, 

And  momentary  hope,  and  worn-out  prayer, 

Each  in  his  separate  cell,  or  penned  in  crowds 

For  sacrifice,  and  struggling  with  fond  mirth 

And  levity  in  dungeons,  where  the  dust 

Was  laid  with  tears.     Then  suddenly  the  scene 


BOOK   TENTH.  211 

Changed,  and  the  unbroken  dream  entangled  me       410 
In  long  orations,  which  I  strove  to  plead 
Before  unjust  tribunals,  —  with  a  voice 
Laboring,  a  brain  confounded,  and  a  sense,  - 
Death-like,  of  treacherous  desertion,  felt 
In  the  last  place  of  refuge  —  my  own  soul. 

When  I  began  in  youth's  delightful  prime 
To  yield  myself  to  Nature,  when  that  strong 
And  holy  passion  overcame  me  first, 
Nor  day  nor  night,  evening  or  morn,  was  free 
From  its  oppression.     But,  O  Power  Supreme  !          420 
Without  whose  call  this  world  would  cease  to  breathe, 
Who  from  the  fountain  of  Thy  grace  dost  fill 
The  veins  that  branch  through  every  frame  of  life, 
Making  man  what  he  is,  creature  divine, 
In  single  or  in  social  eminence, 
Above  the  rest  raised  infinite  ascents 
When  reason  that  enables  him  to  be 
Is  not  sequestered  —  what  a  change  is  here  ! 
How  different  ritual  for  this  after-worship, 
What  countenance  to  promote  this  second  love  !        430 
The  first  was  service  paid  to  things  which  lie 
Guarded  within  the  bosom  of  Thy  will. 
Therefore  to  serve  was  high  beatitude  ; 
Tumult  was  therefore  gladness,  and  the  fear 
Ennobling,  venerable  ;  sleep  secure, 
And  waking  thoughts  more  rich  than  happiest  dreams. 

But  as  the  ancient  Prophets,  borne  aloft 
In  vision,  yet  constrained  by  natural  laws 


212  THE  PRELUDE. 

With  them  to  take  a  troubled  human  heart, 

Wanted  not  consolations,  nor  a  creed  440 

Of  reconcilement,  then  when  they  denounced, 

On  towns  and  cities,  wallowing  in  the  abyss 

Of  their  offences,  punishment  to  come ; 

Or  saw,  like  other  men,  with  bodily  eyes, 

Before  them,  in  some  desolated  place, 

The  wrath  consummate  and  the  threat  fulfilled. 

So,  with  devout  humility  be  it  said, 

So  did  a  portion  of  that  spirit  fall 

On  me  uplifted  from  the  vantage-ground 

Of  pity  and  sorrow  to  a  state  of  being  450 

That  through  the  time's  exceeding  fierceness  saw 

Glimpses  of  retribution,  terrible, 

And  in  the  order  of  sublime  behests ; 

But,  even  if  that  were  not,  amid  the  awe 

Of  unintelligible  chastisement, 

Not  only  acquiescences  of  faith 

Survived,  but  daring  sympathies  with  power, 

Motions  not  treacherous  or  profane,  else  why 

Within  the  folds  of  no  ungentle  breast 

Their  dread  vibration  to  this  hour  prolonged  ?  460 

Wild  blasts  of  music  thus  could  find  their  way 

Into  the  midst  of  turbulent  events ; 

So  that  worst  tempests  might  be  listened  to. 

Then  was  the  truth  received  into  my  heart, 

That,  under  heaviest  sorrow  earth  can  bring, 

If  from  the  affliction  somewhere  do  not  grow 

Honor  which  could  not  else  have  been,  a  faith, 

An  elevation,  and  a  sanctity, 

If  new  strength  be  not  given  nor  old  restored, 


BOOK   TENTH.  213 

The  blame  is  ours,  not  Nature's.     When  a  taunt        470 

Was  taken  up  by  scoffers  in  their  pride, 

Saying,  "  Behold  the  harvest  that  we  reap 

From  popular  government  and  equality," 

I  clearly  saw  that  neither  these  nor  aught 

Of  wild  belief  engrafted  on  their  names 

By  false  philosophy  had  caused  the  woe, 

But  a  terrible  reservoir  of  guilt 

And  ignorance  filled  up  from  age  to  age, 

That  could  no  longer  hold  its  loathsome  charge, 

But  burst  and  spread  in  deluge  through  the  land.       480 

And  as  the  desert  hath  green  spots,  the  sea 
Small  islands  scattered  amid  stormy  waves, 
So  that  disastrous  period  did  not  want 
Bright  sprinklings  of  all  human  excellence, 
To  which  the  silver  wands  of  saints  in  Heaven 
Might  point  with  rapturous  joy.     Yet  not  the  less, 
For  those  examples,  in  no  age  surpassed, 
Of  fortitude  and  energy  and  love, 
And  human  nature  faithful  to  herself 
Under  worst  trials,  was  I  driven  to  think  490 

Of  the  glad  times  when  first  I  traversed  France 
A  youthful  pilgrim  ;  above  all  reviewed 
That  eventide,  when  under  windows  bright 
With  happy  faces  and  with  garlands  hung, 
And  through  a  rainbow-arch  that  spanned  the  street, 
Triumphal  pornp  for  liberty  confirmed, 
I  paced,  a  dear  companion  at  my  side, 
The  town  of  Arras,  whence  with  promise  high 
Issued,  on  delegation  to  sustain 


214  THE  PRELUDE. 

Humanity  and  right,  that  Robespierre,  500 

He  who  thereafter,  and  in  how  short  time  ! 

Wielded  the  sceptre  of  the  Atheist  crew. 

When  the  calamity  spread  far  and  wide  — 

And  this  same  city,  that  did  then  appear 

To  outrun  the  rest  in  exultation,  groaned 

Under  the  vengeance  of  her  cruel  son, 

As  Lear  reproached  the  winds  —  I  could  almost 

Have  quarrelled  with  that  blameless  spectacle 

For  lingering  yet  an  image  in  my  mind 

To  mock  me  under  such  a  strange  reverse.  510 

O  Friend  !  few  happier  moments  have  been  mine 
Than  that  which  told  the  downfall  of  this  Tribe 
So  dreaded,  so  abhorred.     The  day  deserves 
A  separate  record.     Over  the  smooth  sands 
Of  Leven's  ample  estuary  lay 
My  journey,  and  beneath  a  genial  sun, 
With  distant  prospect  among  gleams  of  sky 
And  clouds,  and  intermingling  mountain  tops, 
In  one  inseparable  glory  clad, 

Creatures  of  one  ethereal  substance  met  520 

In  consistory,  like  a  diadem 
Or  crown  of  burning  seraphs  as  they  sit 
In  the  empyrean.     Underneath  that  pomp 
Celestial,  lay  unseen  the  pastoral  vales 
Among  whose  happy  fields  I  had  grown  up 
From  childhood.     On  the  fulgent  spectacle, 
That  neither  passed  away  nor  changed,  I  gazed 
Enrapt ;  but  brightest  things  are  wont  to  draw 
Sad  opposites  out  of  the  inner  heart, 


BOOK    TENTH.  215 

As  even  their  pensive  influence  drew  from  mine.        530 

How  could  it  otherwise  ?  for  not  in  vain 

That  very  morning  had  I  turned  aside 

To  seek  the  ground  where,  'mid  a  throng  of  graves, 

An  honored  teacher  of  my  youth  was  laid, 

And  on  the  stone  were  graven  by  his  desire 

Lines  from  the  churchyard  elegy  of  Gray. 

This  faithful  guide,  speaking  from  his  death-bed, 

Added  no  farewell  to  his  parting  counsel, 

But  said  to  me,  "  My  head  will  soon  lie  low ; " 

And  when  I  saw  the  turf  that  covered  him,  540 

After  the  lapse  of  full  eight  years,  those  words, 

With  sound  of  voice  and  countenance  of  the  Man, 

Came  back  upon  me,  so  that  some  few  tears 

Fell  from  me  in  my  own  despite.     But  now 

I  thought,  still  traversing  that  widespread  plain, 

With  tender  pleasure  of  the  verses  graven 

Upon  this  tombstone,  whispering  to  myself. 

He  loved  the  Poets,  and,  if  now  alive, 

Would  have  loved  me,  as  one  not  destitute 

Of  promise,  nor  belying  the  kind  hope  550 

That  he  had  formed,  when  I,  at  his  command, 

Began  to  spin,  with  toil,  my  earliest  songs. 

As  I  advanced,  all  that  I  saw  or  felt 
Was  gentleness  and  peace.     Upon  a  small 
And  rocky  island  near,  a  fragment  stood 
(Itself  like  a  sea  rock),  the  low  remains 
(With  shells  encrusted,  dark  with  briny  weeds) 
Of  a  dilapidated  structure,  once 
A  Romish  chapel,  where  the  vested  priest 


216  THE  PRELUDE. 

Said  matins  at  the  hour  that  suited  those  560 

Who  crossed  the  sands  with  ebb  of  morning  tide. 

Not  far  from  that  still  ruin  all  the  plain 

Lay  spotted  with  a  variegated  crowd 

Of  vehicles  and  travellers,  horse  and  foot, 

Wading  beneath  the  conduct  of  their  guide 

In  loose  procession  through  the  shallow  stream 

Of  inland  waters ;  the  great  sea  meanwhile 

Heaved  at  safe  distance,  far  retired.     I  paused, 

Longing  for  skill  to  paint  a  scene  so  bright 

And  cheerful,  but  the  foremost  of  the  band  570 

As  he  approached,  no  salutation  given 

In  the  familiar  language  of  the  day, 

Cried,  "  Robespierre  is  dead  !  "  — nor  was  a  doubt, 

After  strict  question,  left  within  my  mind 

That  he  and  his  supporters  all  were  fallen. 

Great  was  my  transport,  deep  my  gratitude 
To  everlasting  Justice,  by  this  fiat 
Made  manifest.     "  Come  now,  ye  golden  times," 
Said  I  forth-pouring  on  those  open  Sands 
A  hymn  of  triumph  :  "  as  the  morning  comes  580 

From  out  the  bosom  of  the  night,  come  ye  : 
Thus  far  our  trust  is  verified ;  behold  ! 
They  who  with  clumsy  desperation,  brought 
A  river  of  Blood,  and  preached  that  nothing  else 
Could  cleanse  the  Augean  stable  by  the  might 
Of  their  own  helper  have  been  swept  away ; 
Their  madness  stands  declared  and  visible  ; 
Elsewhere  will  safety  now  be  sought,  and  earth 
March  firmly  towards  righteousness  and  peace."  — 


BOOK    TENTH.  217 

Then  schemes  I  framed  more  calmly,  when  and  how  590 

The  madding  factions  might  be  tranquillized, 

And  how  through  hardships  manifold  and  long 

The  glorious  renovation  would  proceed. 

Thus  interrupted  by  uneasy  bursts 

Of  exultation,  I  pursued  my  way 

Along  that  very  shore  which  I  had  skimmed 

In  former  days,  when  —  spurring  from  the  Vale 

Of  Nightshade  and  St.  Mary's  mouldering  fane, 

And  the  stone  abbot,  after  circuit  made 

In  wantonness  of  heart,  a  joyous  band  600 

Of  school-boys  hastening  to  their  distant  home 

Along  the  margin  of  the  moonlight  sea : — 

We  beat  with  thundering  hoofs  the  level  sand. 


BOOK  ELEVENTH. 


FRANCE.  —  Concluded. 

FROM  that  time  forward,  Authority  in  France 
Put  on  a  milder  face  ;  Terror  had  ceased, 
Yet  everything  was  wanting  that  might  give 
Courage  to  them  who  looked  for  good  by  light 
Of  rational  Experience,  for  the  shoots 
And  hopeful  blossoms  of  a  second  spring ; 
Yet,  in  me,  confidence  was  unimpaired ; 
The  Senate's  language,  and  the  public  acts 
And  measures  of  the  Government,  though  both 
Weak,  and  of  heartless  omen,  had  not  power 
To  daunt  me  ;  in  the  People  was  my  trust : 
And  in  the  virtues  which  mine  eyes  had  seen, 
I  knew  that  wound  external  could  not  take 
Life  from  the  young  Republic ;  that  new  foes 
Would  only  follow,  in  the  path  of  shame, 
Their  brethren,  and  her  triumphs  be  in  the  end 
Great,  universal,  irresistible.  * 

This  intuition  led  me  to  confound 
One  victory  with  another,  higher  far,  — 
Triumphs  of  unambitious  peace  at  home, 
And  noiseless  fortitude.     Beholding  still 


X 
BOOK  ELEVENTH.  219 

Resistance  strong  as  heretofore,  I  thought 

That  what  was  in  degree  the  same  was  likewise 

The  same  in  quality,  —  that,  as  the  worse 

Of  the  two  spirits  then  at  strife  remained 

Untired,  the  better,  surely,  would  preserve 

The  heart  that  first  had  roused  him.     Youth  maintains, 

In  all  conditions  of  society, 

Communion  more  direct  and  intimate 

With  Nature,  —  hence,  ofttimes,  with  reason  too  —     30 

Than  age  or  manhood,  even.     To  Nature,  then, 

Power  had  reverted,  habit,  custom,  law, 

Had  left  an  interregnum's  open  space, 

For  her  to  move  about  in,  uncontrolled. 

Hence  could  I  see  how  Babel-like  their  task, 

Who,  by  the  recent  deluge  stupefied, 

With  their  whole  souls  went  culling  from  the  day 

Its  petty  promises,  to  build  a  tower 

For  their  own  safety  ;  laughed  with  my  compeers 

At  gravest  heads,  by  enmity  to  France  40 

Distempered,  till  they  found,  in  every  blast 

Forced  from  the  street-disturbing  newsman's  horn, 

For  her  great  cause  record  or  prophecy 

Of  utter  ruin.     How  might  we  believe 

That  wisdom  could,  in  any  shape,  come  near 

Men  clinging  to  delusions  so  insane? 

And  thus,  experience  proving  that  no  few 

Of  our  opinions  had  been  just,  we  took 

Like  credit  to  ourselves  where  less  was  due, 

And  thought  that  other  notions  were  as  sound,  50 

Yea,  could  not  but  be  right,  because  we  saw 

That  foolish  men  opposed  them. 


220  THE  PRELUDE. 

To  a  strain 

More  animated  I  might  here  give  way, 
And  tell,  since  juvenile  errors  are  my  theme, 
What  in  those  days,  through  Britain,  was  performed 
To  turn  all  judgments  out  of  their  right  course ; 
But  this  is  passion  over-near  ourselves, 
Reality  too  close  and  too  intense, 
And  intermixed  with  something,  in  my  mind, 
Of  scorn  and  condemnation  personal,  60 

That  would  profane  the  sanctity  of  verse. 
Our  Shepherds,  this  say,  merely,  at  that  time 
Acted,  or  seemed  at  least  to  act,  like  men 
Thirsting  to  make  the  guardian  crook  of  law 
A  tool  of  murder ;  they  who  ruled  the  State, 
Though  with  such  awful  proof  before  their  eyes 
That  he,  who  would  sow  death,  reaps  death,  or  worse, 
And  can  reap  nothing  better,  child-like  longed 
To  imitate,  not  wise  enough  to  avoid ; 
Or  left  (by  mere  timidity  betrayed)  73 

The  plain  straight  road,  for  one  no  better  chosen 
Than  if  their  wish  had  been  to  undermine 
Justice,  and  make  an  end  of  Liberty. 

But  from  these  bitter  truths  I  must  return 
To  my  own  history.     It  hath  been  told 
That  I  was  led  to  take  an  eager  part 
In  arguments  of  civil  polity, 
Abruptly,  and  indeed  before  my  time  : 
I  had  approached,  like  other  youths,  the  shield 
Of  human  nature  from  the  golden  side,  80 

And  would  have  fought,  even  to  the  death,  to  attest 


BOOK  ELEVENTH.  221 

The  quality  of  the  metal  which  I  saw. 

What  there  is  best  in  individual  man, 

Of  wise  in  passion,  and  sublime  in  power, 

Benevolent  in  small  societies, 

And  great  in  large  ones,  I  had  oft  revolved, 

Felt  deeply,  but  not  thoroughly  understood 

By  reason  :  nay,  far  from  it ;  they  were  yet, 

As  cause  was  given  me  afterwards  to  learn, 

Not  proof  against  the  injuries  of  the  day ;  90 

Lodged  only  at  the  sanctuary's  door, 

Not  safe  within  its  bosom.     Thus  prepared, 

And  with  such  general  insight  into  evil, 

And  of  the  bounds  which  sever  it  from  good, 

As  books  and  common  intercourse  with  life 

Must  needs  have  given  —  to  the  inexperienced  mind, 

When  the  world  travels  in  a  beaten  road, 

Guide  faithful  as  is  needed  —  I  began 

To  meditate  with  ardor  on  the  rule 

And  management  of  nations  ;  what  it  is  100 

And  ought  to  be  ;  and  strove  to  learn  how  far 

Their  power  or  weakness,  wealth  or  poverty, 

Their  happiness  or  misery,  depends 

Upon  their  laws,  and  fashion  of  the  State. 

O  pleasant  exercise  of  hope  and  joy  ! 
For  mighty  were  the  auxiliars  which  then  stood 
Upon  our  side,  us  who  were  strong  in  love  ! 
Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive, 
But  to  be  young  was  very  Heaven  !     O  times, 
In  which  the  meagre,  stale,  forbidding  ways  no 

Of  custom,  law,  and  statute,  took  at  once 


222  THE  PRELUDE. 

The  attraction  of  a  country  in  romance  ! 

When  Reason  seemed  the  most  to  assert  her  rights 

When  most  intent  on  making  of  herself 

A  prime  enchantress  —  to  assist  the  work, 

Which  then  was  going  forward  in  her  name  ! 

Not  favored  spots  alone,  but  the  whole  Earth, 

The  beauty  wore  of  promise  —  that  which  sets 

(As  at  some  moments  might  not  be  unfelt 

Among  the  bowers  of  Paradise  itself)  120 

The  budding  rose  above  the  rose  full  blown 

What  temper  at  the  prospect  did  not  wake 

To  happiness  unthought  of?    The  inert 

Were  roused,  and  lively  natures  rapt  away  ! 

They  who  had  fed  their  childhood  upon  dreams, 

The  play-fellows  of  fancy,  who  had  made 

All  powers  of  swiftness,  subtilty,  and  strength 

Their  ministers,  —  who  in  lordly  wise  had  stirred 

Among  the  grandest  objects  of  the  sense, 

And  dealt  with  whatsoever  they  found  there  130 

As  if  they  had  within  some  lurking  right 

To  wield  it ;  —  they,  too,  who  of  gentle  mood 

Had  watched  all  gentle  motions,  and  to  these 

Had  fitted  their  own  thoughts,  schemers  more  mild, 

And  in  the  region  of  their  peaceful  selves  ;  — 

Now  was  it  that  both  found,  the  meek  and  lofty 

Did  both  find  helpers  to  their  hearts'  desire, 

And  stuff  at  hand,  plastic  as  they  could  wish,  — 

Were  called  upon  to  exercise  their  skill, 

Not  in  Utopia,  —  subterranean  fields,  —  140 

Or  some  secreted  island,  Heaven  knows  where  ! 

But  in  the  very  world,  which  is  the  world 


BOOK  ELEVENTH.  223 

Of  all  of  us,  —  the  place  where,  in  the  end, 
We  find  our  happiness,  or  not  at  all ! 

Why  should  I  not  confess  that  Earth  was  then 
To  me  what  an  inheritance,  new-fallen, 
Seems,  when  the  first  time  visited,  to  one 
Who  thither  comes  to  find  in  it  his  home  ! 
He  walks  about  and  looks  upon  the  spot 
With  cordial  transport,  moulds  it  and  remoulds,          150 
And  is  half  pleased  with  things  that  are  amiss, 
'Twill  be  such  joy  to  see  them  disappear. 

An  active  partisan,  I  thus  convoked 
From  every  object  pleasant  circumstance 
To  suit  my  ends ;  I  moved  among  mankind 
With  genial  feelings  still  predominant ; 
When  erring,  erring  on  the  better  part, 
And  in  the  kinder  spirit ;  placable, 
Indulgent,  as  not  uninformed  that  men 
See  as  they  have  been  taught  —  Antiquity  160 

Gives  rights  to  error ;  and  aware,  no  less, 
That  throwing  off  oppression  must  be  work 
As  well  of  License  as  of  Liberty ; 
And  above  all  —  for  this  was  more  than  all  — 
Not  caring  if  the  wind  did  now  and  then 
Blow  keen  upon  an  eminence  that  gave 
Prospect  so  large  into  futurity ; 
In  brief,  a  child  of  Nature,  as  at  first, 
Diffusing  only  those  affections  wider 
That  from  the  cradle  had  grown  up  with  me,  170 

And  losing,  in  no  other  way  than  light 
Is  lost  in  light,  the  weak  in  the  more  strong. 


224  THE  PRELUDE. 

In  the  main  outline,  such  it  might  be  said 
Was  my  condition,  till  with  open  war 
Britain  opposed  the  liberties  of  France. 
This  threw  me  first  out  of  the  pale  of  love ; 
Soured  and  corrupted,  upwards  to  the  source, 
My  sentiments  ;  was  not,  as  hitherto, 
A  swallowing  up  of  lesser  things  in  great, 
But  change  of  them  into  their  contraries ;  180 

And  thus  a  way  was  opened  for  mistakes 
And  false  conclusions,  in  degree  as  gross, 
In  kind  more  dangerous.     What  had  been  a  pride 
Was  now  a  shame  ;  my  likings  and  my  loves 
Ran  in  new  channels,  leaving  old  ones  dry  : 
And  hence  a  blow  that,  in  maturer  age, 
Would  but  have  touched  the  judgment,  struck  more  deep  ' 
Into  sensations  near  the  heart :  meantime, 
As  from  the  first,  wild  theories  were  afloat, 
To  whose  pretensions,  sedulously  urged,  190 

I  had  but  lent  a  careless  ear,  assured 
That  time  was  ready  to  set  all  things  right, 
And  that  the  multitude,  so  long  oppressed, 
Would  be  oppressed  no  more. 

But  when  events 

Brought  less  encouragement,  and  unto  these 
The  immediate  proof  of  principles  no  more 
Could  be  entrusted,  while  the  events  themselves, 
Worn  out  in  greatness,  stripped  of  novelty, 
Less  occupied  the  mind,  and  sentiments 
Could  through  my  understanding's  natural  growth      aoo 
No  longer  keep  their  ground,  by  faith  maintained 
Of  inward  consciousness,  and  hope  that  laid 


BOOK  ELEVENTH.  225 

Her  hand  upon  her  object  —  evidence 

Safer,  of  universal  application,  such 

As  could  not  be  impeached,  was  sought  elsewhere. 

But  now,  become  oppressors  in  their  turn, 
Frenchmen  had  changed  a  war  of  self-defence 
For  one  of  conquest,  losing  sight  of  all 
Which  they  had  struggled  for  :  up  mounted  now, 
Openly  in  the  eye  of  earth  and  heaven,  210 

The  scale  of  liberty.     I  read  her  doom, 
With  anger  vexed,  with  disappointment  sore, 
But  not  dismayed,  nor  taking  to  the  shame 
Of  a  false  prophet.     While  resentment  rose 
Striving  to  hide,  what  naught  could  heal  the  wounds 
Of  mortified  presumption,  I  adhered 
More  firmly  to  old  tenets,  and,  to  prove 
Their  temper,  strained  them  more ;  and  thus,  in  heat 
Of  contest,  did  opinions  every  day 
Grow  into  consequence,  till  round  my  mind  220 

They  clung,  as  if  they  were  its  life,  nay  more, 
The  very  being  of  the  immortal  soul. 

This  was  the  time,  when,  all  things  tending  fast 
To  depravation,  speculative  schemes  — 
That  promised  to  abstract  the  hopes  of  Man 
Out  of  his  feelings,  to  be  fixed  thenceforth 
Forever  in  a  purer  element  — 
Found  ready  welcome.     Tempting  region  that 
For  zeal  to  enter  and  refresh  herself, 
Where  passions  had  the  privilege  to  work,  230 

And  never  hear  the  sound  of  their  own  names. 


226  .  THE  PRELUDE. 

But,  speaking  more  in  charity,  the  dream 

Flattered  the  young,  pleased  with  extremes,  nor  least 

With  that  which  makes  our  Reason's  naked  self 

The  object  of  its  fervor.     What  delight ! 

How  gloriftus  !  in  self-knowledge  and  self-rule, 

To  look  through  all  the  frailties  of  the  world, 

And,  with  a  resolute  mastery  shaking  off 

Infirmities  of  nature,  time,  and  place, 

Build  social  upon  personal  Liberty,  240 

Which,  to  the  blind  restraints  of  general  laws 

Superior,  magisterially  adopts 

One  guide,  the  light  of  circumstances,  flashed 

Upon  an  independent  intellect. 

Thus  expectation  rose  again ;  thus  hope, 

From  her  first  ground  expelled,  grew  proud  once  more. 

Oft,  as  my  thoughts  were  turned  to  human  kind, 

I  scorned  indifference  ;  but,  inflamed  with  thirst 

Of  a  secure  intelligence,  and  sick 

Of  other  longing,  I  pursued  what  seemed  250 

A  more  exalted  nature  ;  wished  that  Man 

Should  start  out  of  his  earthly,  worm-like  state, 

And  spread  abroad  the  wings  of  Liberty, 

Lord  of  himself,  in  undisturbed  delight — 

A  noble  aspiration  !  yet  I  feel 

(Sustained  by  worthier  as  by  wiser  thoughts) 

The  aspiration,  nor  shall  ever  cease 

To  feel  it ;  —  but  return  we  to  our  course. 

Enough,  'tis  true  —  could  such  a  plea  excuse 
Those  aberrations  —  had  the  clamorous  friends  a6o 

Of  ancient  Institutions  said  and  done 


BOOK  ELEVENTH.  227 

To  bring  disgrace  upon  their  very  names  ; 

Disgrace,  of  which,  custom  and  written  law, 

And  sundry  moral  sentiments  as  props 

Or  emanations  of  those  institutes, 

Too  justly  bore  a  part.     A  veil  had  been 

Uplifted  ;  why  deceive  ourselves  ?  in  sooth 

'Twas  even  so ;  and  sorrow  for  the  man 

Who  either  had  not  eyes  wherewith  to  see, 

Or,  seeing,  had  forgotten  !     A  strong  shock  270 

Was  given  to  old  opinions  ;  all  men's  minds 

Had  felt  its  power,  and  mine  was  both  let  loose, 

Let  loose  and  goaded.     After  what  hath  been 

Already  said  of  patriotic  love, 

Suffice  it  here  to  add,  that,  somewhat  stern 

In  temperament,  withal  a  happy  man, 

And  therefore  bold  to  look  on  painful  things, 

Free  likewise  of  the  world,  and  thence  more  bold, 

I  summoned  my  best  skill,  and  toiled,  intent 

To  anatomize  the  frame  of  social  life,  280 

Yea,  the  whole  body  of  society 

Searched  to  its  heart.     Share  with  me,  Friend  !  the  wish 

That  some  dramatic  tale,  endued  with  shapes 

Livelier,  and  flinging  out  less  guarded  words 

Than  suit  the  work  we  fashion,  might  set  forth 

What  then  I  learned,  or  think  I  learned,  of  truth, 

And  the  errors  into  which  I  fell,  betrayed 

By  present  objects,  and  by  reasonings  false 

From  their  beginnings,  inasmuch  as  drawn 

Out  of  a  heart  that  had  been  turned  aside  290 

From  Nature's  way  by  outward  accidents, 

And  which  was  thus  confounded,  more  and  more 


228  THE  PRELUDE. 

Misguided  and  misguiding.     So  I  fared, 

Dragging  all  precepts,  judgments,  maxims,  creeds, 

Like  culprits  to  the  bar ;  calling  the  mind, 

Suspiciously,  to  establish  in  plain  day 

Her  titles  and  her  honors ;  now  believing, 

Now  disbelieving ;  endlessly  perplexed 

With  impulse,  motive,  right  and  wrong,  the  ground 

Of  obligation,  what  the  rule  and  whence  300 

The  sanction  ;  till,  demanding  formal  proof, 

And  seeking  it  in  every  thing,  I  lost 

All  feeling  of  conviction,  and,  in  fine, 

Sick,  wearied  out  with  contrarieties, 

Yielded  up  moral  questions  in  despair. 

This  was  the  crisis  of  that  strong  disease, 
This  the  soul's  last  and  lowest  ebb ;  I  drooped. 
Deeming  our  blessed  reason  of  least  use 
Where  wanted  most :  "  The  lordly  attributes 
Of  will  and  choice,"  I  bitterly  exclaimed,  310 

"  What  are  they  but  a  mockery  of  a  Being 
Who  hath  in  no  concerns  of  his  a  test 
Of  good  and  evil ;  knows  not  what  to  fear 
Or  hope  for,  what  to  covet  or  to  shun  : 
And  who,  if  those  could  be  discerned,  would  yet 
Be  little  profited,  would  see,  and  ask 
Where  is  the  obligation  to  enforce? 
And,  to  acknowledged  law  rebellious,  still, 
As  selfish  passion  urged,  would  act  amiss ; 
The  dupe  of  folly,  or  the  slave  of  crime."  320 

Depressed,  bewildered  thus,  I  did  not  walk, 
With  scoffers,  seeking  light  and  gay  revenge 


BOOK  ELEVENTH.  229 

From  indiscriminate  laughter,  nor  sate  down 

In  reconcilement  with  an  utter  waste 

Of  intellect ;  such  sloth  I  could  not  brook, 

(Too  well  I  loved,  in  that  my  spring  of  life, 

Pains- taking  thoughts,  and  truth,  their  dear  reward) 

But  turned  to  abstract  science,  and  there  sought 

Work  for  the  reasoning  faculty  enthroned 

Where  the  disturbances  of  space  and  time  330 

Whether  in  matters  various,  properties 

Inherent,  or  from  human  will  and  power 

Derived  —  find  no  admission.     Then  it  was  — 

Thanks  to  the  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good  !  — 

That  the  beloved  Sister  in  whose  sight 

Those  days  were  passed,  now  speaking  in  a  voice 

Of  sudden  admonition  —  like  a  brook 

That  did  but  cross  a  lonely  road,  and  now 

Is  seen,  heard,  felt,  and  caught  at  every  turn, 

Companion  never  lost  through  many  a  league  —        340 

Maintained  for  me  a  saving  intercourse 

With  my  true  self;  for,  though  bedimmed  and  changed 

Much,  as  it  seemed,  I  was  no  further  changed 

Than  as  a  clouded  and  a  waning  moon  : 

She  whispered  still  that  brightness  would  return, 

She,  in  the  midst  of  all,  preserved  me  still 

A  Poet,  made  me  seek  beneath  that  name, 

And  that  alone,  my  office  upon  earth  ; 

And,  lastly,  as  hereafter  will  be  shown, 

If  willing  audience  fail  not,  Nature's  self,  350 

By  all  varieties  of  human  love 

Assisted,  led  me  back  through  opening  day 

To  whose  sweet  counsels  between  head  and  heart 


230  THE  PRELUDE. 

Whence  grew  that  genuine  knowledge,  fraught  with  peace, 

Which,  through  the  later  sinkings  of  this  cause, 

Hath  still  upheld  me,  and  upholds  me  now 

In  the  catastrophe  (for  so  they  dream, 

And  nothing  less),  when,  finally  to  close 

And  seal  up  all  the  gains  of  France,  a  Pope 

Is  summoned  in,  to  crown  an  Emperor —  360 

This  last  opprobrium,  when  we  see  a  people, 

That  once  looked  up  in  faith,  as  if  to  Heaven 

For  manna,  take  a  lesson  from  the  dog 

Returning  to  his  vomit ;  when  the  sun 

That  rose  in  splendor,  was  alive,  and  moved 

In  exultation  with  a  living  pomp 

Of  clouds  —  his  glory's  natural  retinue  — 

Hath  dropped  all  functions  by  the  gods  bestowed, 

And,  turned  into  a  gewgaw,  a  machine, 

Sets  like  an  Opera  phantom. 

Thus,  O  Friend  !          370 

Through  times  of  honor  and  through  times  of  shame 
Descending,  have  I  faithfully  retraced 
The  perturbations  of  a  youthful  mind 
Under  a  long-lived  storm  of  great  events  — 
A  story  destined  for  thy  ear,  who  now, 
Among  the  fallen  of  nations,  dost  abide 
Where  Etna,  over  hill  and  valley,  casts 
His  shadow  stretching  towards  Syracuse, 
The  city  of  Timoleon  !     Righteous  Heaven  1 
How  are  the  mighty  prostrated  !     They  first,  380 

They  first  of  all  that  breathe,  should  have  awaked 
When  the  great  voice  was  heard  from  out  the  tombs 
Of  ancient  heroes.     If  I  suffered  grief 


BOOK  ELEVENTH.  231 

For  ill-requited  France,  by  many  deemed 

A  trifler  only  in  her  proudest  day ; 

Have  been  distressed  to  think  of  what  she  once 

Promised,  now  is  ;  a  far  more  sober  cause 

Thine  eyes  must  see  of  sorrow  in  a  land, 

To  the  reanimating  influence  lost 

Of  memory,  to  virtue  lost  and  hope,  390 

Though  with  the  wreck  of  loftier  years  bestrewn. 

But  indignation  works  where  hope  is  not, 
And  thou,  O  Friend  !  wilt  be  refreshed.     There  is 
One  great  society  alone  on  earth  : 
The  noble  Living  and  the  noble  Dead. 

Thine  be  such  converse  strong  and  sanative, 
A  ladder  for  thy  spirit  to  reascend 
To  health-and  joy  and  pure  contentedness  ; 
To  me  the  grief  confined,  that  thou  art  gone 
From  this  last  spot  of  earth,  where  freedom  now        400 
Stands  single  in  her  only  sanctuary ; 
A  lonely  wanderer  art  gone,  by  pain 
Compelled  and  sickness,  at  this  latter  day, 
This  sorrowful  reverse  for  all  mankind. 
I  feel  for  thee,  must  utter  what  I  feel : 
The  sympathies,  erewhile  in  part  discharged, 
Gather  afresh,  and  will  have  vent  again  : 
My  own  delights  do  scarcely  seem  to  me 
My  own  delights  ;  the  lordly  Alps  themselves, 
Those  rosy  peaks  from  which  the  Morning  looks         410 
Abroad  on  many  nations,  are  no  more 
Rpr  me  that  image  of  pure  gladsomeness 


232  THE  PRELUDE. 

Which  they  were  wont  to  be.     Through  kindred  scenes, 

For  purpose,  at  a  time,  how  different  ? 

Thou  tak'st  thy  way,  carrying  the  heart  and  soul 

That  Nature  gives  to  Poets,  now  by  thought 

Matured,  and  in  the  summer  of  their  strength. 

Oh  !  wrap  him  in  your  shades,  ye  giant  woods, 

On  Etna's  side ;  and  thou,  O  flowery  field 

Of  Enna  !  is  there  not  some  nook  of  thine,  420 

From  the  first  play-time  of  the  infant  world 

Kept  sacred  to  restorative  delight, 

When  from  afar  invoked  by  anxious  love  ? 

Child  of  the  mountains,  among  shepherds  reared, 
Ere  yet  familiar  with  the  classic  page, 
I  learnt  to  dream  of  Sicily ;  and  lo, 
The  gloom,  that,  but  a  moment  past,  was  deepened 
At  thy  command,  at  her  command  gives  way ; 
A  pleasant  promise,  wafted  from  her  shores, 
Comes  o'er  my  heart :  in  fancy  I  behold  430 

Her  seas  yet  smiling,  her  once  happy  vales  ; 
Nor  can  thy  tongue  give  utterance  to  a  name 
Of  note  belonging  to  that  honored  isle, 
Philosopher  or  Bard,  Empedocles, 
Or  Archimedes,  pure  abstracted  soul ! 
That  doth  not  yield  a  solace  to  my  grief: 
And,  O  Theocritus,  so  far  have  some 
Prevailed  among  the  powers  of  heaven  and  earth, 
By  their  endowments,  good  or  great,  that  they 
Have  had,  as  thou  reportest,  miracles  440 

Wrought  for  them  in  old  time  :  yea,  not  unmoved, 
When  thinking  on  my  own  beloved  friend, 


BOOK  ELEVENTH.  233 

I  hear  thee  tell  how  bees  with  honey  fed 
Divine  Comates  by  his  impious  lord 
Within  a  chest  imprisoned  ;  how  they  came 
Laden  from  blooming  grove  or  flowery  field, 
And  feed  him  there,  alive,  month  after  month, 
Because  the  goatherd,  blessed  man  !  had  lips 
Wet  with  the  Muses'  nectar. 

Thus  I  soothe 

The  pensive  moments  by  his  calm  fireside  450 

And  find  a  thousand  bounteous  images 
To  cheer  the  thoughts  of  those  I  love,  and  mine. 
Our  prayers  have  been  accepted ;  thou  wilt  stand 
On  Etna's  summit,  above  earth  and  sea, 
Triumphant,  winning  from  the  invaded  heavens 
Thoughts  without  bound,  magnificent  designs, 
Worthy  of  poets  who  attuned  their  harps 
In  wood  or  echoing  cave,  for  discipline 
Of  heroes  ;  or,  in  reverence  to  the  gods, 
'Mid  temples,  served  by  sapient  priests,  and  choirs    460 
Of  virgins  crowned  with  roses.     Not  in  vain 
Those  temples,  where  they  in  their  ruins  yet 
Survive  for  inspiration,  shall  attract 
Thy  solitary  steps  :  and  on  the  brink 
Thou  wilt  recline  of  pastoral  Arethuse  ; 
Or,  if  that  fountain  be  in  truth  no  more, 
Then  near  some  other  spring  —  which  by  the  name 
Thou  gratulatest,  willingly  deceived  — 
I  see  thee  linger  a  glad  votary, 
And  not  a  captive  pining  for  his  home.  470 


BOOK  TWELFTH. 


IMAGINATION  AND   TASTE,  HOW  IMPAIRED  AND 
RESTORED. 

LONG  time  have  human  ignorance  and  guilt 

Detained  us,  on  what  spectacles  of  woe 

Compelled  to  look,  and  inwardly  impress 

With  sorrow,  disappointment,  vexing  thoughts, 

Confusion  of  the  judgment,  zeal  decayed, 

And,  lastly,  utter  loss  of  hope  itself 

And  things  to  hope  for  !     Not  with  these  began 

Our  song,  and  not  with  these  our  song  must  end  — 

Ye  motions  of  delight,  that  haunt  the  sides 

Of  the  green  hills  ;  ye  breezes  and  soft  airs,  i< 

Whose  subtle  intercourse  with  breathing  flowers, 

Feelingly  watched,  might  teach  Man's  haughty  race 

How  without  injury  to  take,  to  give 

Without  offence  ;  ye  who,  as  if  to  show 

The  wondrous  influence  of  power  gently  used, 

Bend  the  complying  heads  of  lordly  pines, 

And,  with  a  touch,  shift  the  stupendous  clouds 

Through  the  whole  compass  of  the  sky ;  ye  brooks, 

Muttering  along  the  stones,  a  busy  noise 


BOOK   TWELFTH.  235 

By  day,  a  quiet  sound  in  silent  night ;  20 

Ye  waves,  that  out  of  the  great  deep  steal  forth 

In  a  calm  hour  to  kiss  the  pebbly  shore, 

Not  mute,  and  then  retire,  fearing  no  storm ; 

And  you,  ye  groves,  whose  ministry  it  is 

To  interpose  the  covert  of  your  shades, 

Even  as  a  sleep,  between  the  heart  of  man 

And  outward  troubles,  between  man  himself, 

Not  seldom,  and  his  own  uneasy  heart : 

Oh,  that  I  had  a  music  and  a  voice 

Harmonious  as  your  own,  that  I  might  tell  30 

What  ye  have  done  for  me.     The  morning  shines. 

Nor  heedeth  Man's  perverseness  ;  Spring  returns,  — 

I  saw  the  Spring  return,  and  could  rejoice, 

In  common  with  the  children  of  love, 

Piping  on  boughs,  or  sporting  on  fresh  fields, 

Or  boldly  seeking  pleasure  nearer  heaven 

On  wings  that  navigate  cerulean  skies. 

So  neither  were  complacency,  nor  peace, 

Nor  tender  yearnings,  wanting  for  my  good 

Through  these  distracted  times  ;  in  Nature  still  40 

Glorying,  I  found  a  counterpoise  in  her, 

Which  when  the  spirit  of  evil  reached  its  height 

Maintained  for  me  a  secret  happiness. 

This  narrative,  my  Friend  !  hath  chiefly  told 
Of  intellectual  power,  fostering  love, 
Dispensing  truth,  and,  over  men  and  things, 
Where  reason  yet  might  hesitate,  diffusing 
Prophetic  sympathies  of  genial  faith  : 
So  was  I  favored  —  such  my  happy  lot  — 


236  THE  PRELUDE. 

Until  that  natural  graciousness  of  mind  50 

Gave  way  to  overpressure  from  the  times 

And  their  disastrous  issues.     What  availed, 

When  spells  forbade  the  voyager  to  land, 

That  fragrant  notice  of  a  pleasant  shore 

Wafted,  at  intervals,  from  many  a  bower 

Of  blissful  gratitude  and  fearless  love  ? 

Dare  I  avow  that  wish  was  mine  to  see, 

And  hope  that  future  times  would  surely  see, 

The  man  to  come,  parted,  as  by  a  gulph, 

From  him  who  had  been ;  that  I  could  no  more          60 

Trust  the  elevation  which  had  made  me  one 

With  the  great  family  that  still  survives 

To  illuminate  the  abyss  of  ages  past, 

Sage  warrior,  patriot,  hero  ;  for  it  seemed 

That  their  best  virtues  were  not  free  from  taint 

Of  something  false  and  weak,  that  could  not  stand 

The  open  eye  of  Reason.     Then  I  said, 

"  Go  to  the  Poets,  they  will  speak  to  thee 

More  perfectly  of  purer  creatures  ;  —  yet 

If  reason  be  nobility  in  man,  70 

Can  aught  be  more  ignoble  than  the  man 

Whom  they  delight  in,  blinded  as  he  is 

By  prejudice,  the  miserable  slave 

Of  low  ambition  or  distempered  love?" 

In  such  strange  passion,  if  I  may  once  more 
Review  the  past,  I  warred  against  myself — 
A  bigot  to  a  new  idolatry  — 
Like  a  cowled  monk  who  hath  forsworn  the  world, 
Zealously  labored  to  cut  off  my  heart 


BOOK   TWELFTH.  237 

From  all  the  sources  of  her  former  strength ;  80 

And  as,  by  simple  waving  of  a  wand, 

The  wizard  instantaneously  dissolves 

Palace  or  grove,  even  so  could  I  unsoul 

As  readily  by  syllogistic  words 

Those  mysteries  of  being  which  have  made, 

And  shall  continue  evermore  to  make, 

Of  the  whole  human  race  one  brotherhood. 

What  wonder,  then,  if,  to  a  mind  so  far 
Perverted,  even  the  visible  Universe 
Fell  under  the  dominion  of  a  taste  90 

Less  spiritual  with  microscopic  view 
Was  scanned,  as  I  had  scanned  the  moral  world  ? 

O  Soul  of  Nature  !  excellent  and  fair  ! 
That  didst  rejoice  with  me,  with  whom  I,  too, 
Rejoiced  through  early  youth,  before  the  winds 
And  roaring  waters,  and  in  lights  and  shades 
That  marched  and  countermarched  about  the  hills 
In  glorious  apparition,  Powers  on  whom 
I  daily  waited,  now  all  eye  and  now 
All  ear ;  but  never  long  without  the  heart  100 

Employed,  and  man's  unfolding  intellect : 
O  Soul  of  Nature  !  that,  by  laws  divine 
Sustained  and  governed,  still  dost  overflow 
With  an  impassioned  life,  what  feeble  ones 
Walk  on  this  earth  !  how  feeble  have  I  been 
When  thou  wert  in  thy  strength  !  Nor  this  through  stroke 
Of  human  suffering,  such  as  justifies 
Remissness  and  inaptitude  of  mind, 


238  THE  PRELUDE. 

But  through  presumption ;  even  in  pleasure  pleased 

Unworthily,  disliking  here,  and  there  no 

Liking  ;  by  rules  of  mimic  art  transferred 

To  things  above  all  art ;  but  more,  —  for  this, 

Although  a  strong  infection  of  the  age, 

Was  never  much  my  habit  —  giving  way 

To  a  comparison  of  scene  with  scene, 

Bent  overmuch  on  superficial  things, 

Pampering  myself  with  meagre  novelties 

Of  color  and  proportion ;  to  the  moods 

Of  time  and  season,  to  the  moral  power, 

The  affections  and  the  spirit  of  the  place,  xao 

Insensible.     Nor  only  did  the  love 

Of  sitting  thus  in  judgment  interrupt 

My  deeper  feelings,  but  another  cause, 

More  subtle  and  less  easily  explained, 

That  almost  seems  inherent  in  the  creature, 

A  twofold  frame  of  body  and  of  mind. 

I  speak  in  recollection  of  a  time 

When  the  bodily  eye,  in  every  stage  of  life 

The  most  despotic  of  our  senses,  gained 

Such  strength  in  me  as  often  held  my  mind  130 

In  absolute  dominion.     Gladly  here, 

Entering  upon  abstruser  argument, 

Could  I  endeavor  to  unfold  the  means 

Which  Nature  studiously  employs  to  thwart 

This  tyranny,  summons  all  the  senses  each 

To  counteract  the  other,  and  themselves, 

And  makes  them  all,  and  the  objects  with  which  all 

Are  conversant,  subservient  in  their  turn 

To  the  great  ends  of  Liberty  and  Power. 


BOOK   TWELFTH.  239 

But  leave  we  this  ;  enough  that  my  delights  140 

(Such  as  they  were)  were  sought  insatiably. 

Vivid  the  transport,  vivid  though  not  profound ; 

I  roamed  from  hill  to  hill,  from  rock  to  rock, 

Still  craving  combinations  of  new  forms, 

New  pleasure,  wider  empire  for  the  sight, 

Proud  of  her  own  endowments,  and  rejoiced 

To  lay  the  inner  faculties  asleep. 

Amid  the  turns  and  counterturns,  the  strife 

And  various  trials  of  our  complex  being, 

As  we  grow  up,  such  thraldom  of  that  sense  150 

Seems  hard  to  shun.     And  yet  I  knew  a  maid, 

A  young  enthusiast,  who  escaped  these  bonds ; 

Her  eye  was  not  the  mistress  of  her  heart ; 

Far  less  did  rules  prescribed  by  passive  taste, 

Or  barren  intermeddling  subtleties, 

Perplex  her  mind ;  but,  wise  as  women  are 

When  genial  circumstance  hath  favored  them, 

She  welcomed  what  was  given,  and  craved  no  more ; 

Whate'er  the  scene  presented  to  her  view 

That  was  the  best,  to  that  she  was  attuned  160 

By  her  benign  simplicity  of  life, 

And  through  a  perfect  happiness  of  soul, 

Whose  variegated  feelings  were  in  this 

Sisters,  that  they  were  each  some  new  delight. 

Birds  in  the  bower,  and  lambs  in  the  green  field, 

Could  they  have  known  her,  would  have  loved; 

methought 

Her  very  presence  such  a  sweetness  breathed, 
That  flowers,  and  trees,  and  even  the  silent  hills, 
And  everything  she  looked  on,  should  have  had 


240  THE  PRELUDE. 

An  intimation  how  she  bore  herself  170 

Towards  them  and  to  all  creatures.     God  delights 
In  such  a  being ;  for,  her  common  thoughts 
Are  piety,  her  life  is  gratitude. 

Even  like  this  maid,  before  I  was  called  forth 
From  the  retirement  of  my  native  hills, 
I  loved  whate'er  I  saw  :  nor  lightly  loved, 
But  most  intensely ;  never  dreamt  of  aught 
More  grand,  more  fair,  more  exquisitely  framed 
Than  those  few  nooks  to  which  my  happy  feet 
Were  limited.     I  had  not  at  that  time  180 

Lived  long  enough,  nor  in  the  least  survived 
The  first  diviner  influence  of  this  world, 
As  it  appears  to  unaccustomed  eyes, 
Worshipping  them  among  the  depth  of  things, 
As  piety  ordained  ;  could  I  submit 
To  measured  admiration,  or  to  aught 
That  should  preclude  humility  and  love  ? 
I  felt,  observed,  and  pondered  ;  did  not  judge, . 
Yea,  never  thought  of  judging ;  with  the  gift 
Of  all  this  glory  filled  and  satisfied.  190 

And  aftenvards,  when  through  the  gorgeous  Alps 
Roaming,  I  carried  with  me  the  same  heart : 
In  truth,  the  degredation  —  howsoe'er 
Induced,  effect,  in  whatsoe'er  degree, 
Of  custom  that  prepares  a  partial  scale 
In  which  the  little  oft  outweighs  the  great  ; 
Or  any  other  cause  that  hath  been  named ; 
Or  lastly,  aggravated  by  the  times 
And  their  impassioned  sounds,  which  well  might  make 


BOOK   TWELFTH.  241 

The  milder  minstrelsies  of  rural  scenes  200 

Inaudible  —  was  transient ;  I  had  known 

Too  forcibly,  too  early  in  my  life, 

Visitings  of  imaginative  power 

For  this  to  last :  I  shook  the  habit  off 

Entirely  and  forever,  and  again 

In  Nature's  presence  stood,  as  now  I  stand, 

A  sensitive  being,  a  creative  soul. 

There  are  in  our  existence  spots  of  time, 
That  with  distinct  pre-eminence  retain 
A  renovating  virtue,  whence,  depressed  210 

By  false  opinion  and  contentious  thought, 
*Or  aught  of  heavier  or  more  deadly  weight, 
In  trivial  occupations,  and  the  round 
Of  ordinary  intercourse,  our  minds 
Are  nourished  and  invisibly  repaired  ; 
A  virtue,  by  which  pleasure  is  enhanced, 
That  penetrates,  enables  us  to  mount, 
When  high,  more  high,  and  lifts  us  up  when  fallen. 
This  efficacious  spirit  chiefly  lurks 
Among  those  passages  of  life  that  give  220 

Profoundest  knowledge  to  what  point,  and  how, 
The  mind  is  lord  and  master  —  outward  sense 
The  obedient  servant  of  her  will.     Such  moments 
Are  scattered  everywhere,  taking  their  date 
From  our  first  childhood.     I  remember  well, 
That  once,  while  yet  my  inexperienced  hand 
Could  scarcely  hold  a  bridle,  with  proud  hopes 
I  mounted,  and  we  journeyed  towards  the  hills  : 
An  ancient  servant  of  my  father's  house 


242  THE  PRELUDE. 

Was  with  me,  my  encourager  and  guide  :  230 

We  had  not  travelled  long,  ere  some  mischance 

Disjoined  me  from  my  comrade ;  and,  through  fear 

Dismounting,  down  the  rough  and  stony  moor 

I  led  my  horse,  and,  stumbling  on,  at  length 

Came  to  a  bottom,  where  in  former  times 

A  murderer  had  been  hung  in  iron  chains. 

The  gibbet-mast  had  mouldered  down,  the  bones 

And  iron  case  were  gone  ;  but  on  the  turf, 

Hard  by,  soon  after  that  fell  deed  was  wrought, 

Some  unknown  hand  had  carved  the  murderer's  name. 

The  monumental  letters  were  inscribed  241 

In  times  long  past ;  but  still,  from  year  to  year, 

By  superstition  of  the  neighborhood, 

The  grass  is  cleared  away,  and  to  this  hour 

The  characters  are  fresh  and  visible ; 

A  casual  glance  had  shown  them,  and  I  fled, 

Faltering  and  faint,  and  ignorant  of  the  road  : 

Then,  reascending  to  the  bare  common,  saw 

A  naked  pool  that  lay  beneath  the  hills, 

The  beacon  on  the  summit,  and,  more  near,  250 

A  girl,  who  bore  a  pitcher  on  her  head, 

And  seemed  with  difficult  steps  to  force  her  way 

Against  the  blowing  wind.     It  was,  in  truth, 

An  ordinary  sight ;  but  I  should  need 

Colors  and  words  that  are  unknown  to  man, 

To  paint  the  visionary  dreariness 

Which,  while  I  looked  all  round  for  my  lost  guide, 

Invested  moorland  waste,  and  naked  pool, 

The  beacon  crowning  the  lone  eminence, 

The  female  and  her  garments  vexed  and  tossed          260 


BOOK    TWELFTH.  243 

By  the  strong  wind.     When,  in  the  blessed  hours 

Of  early  love,  the  loved  one  at  my  side, 

I  roamed,  in  daily  presence  of  this  scene, 

Upon  the  naked  pool  and  dreary  crags, 

And  on  the  melancholy  beacon,  fell 

A  spirit  of  pleasure  and  youth's  golden  gleam ; 

And  think  ye  not  with  radiance  more  sublime 

For  these  remembrances,  and  for  the  power 

They  had  left  behind  ?     So  feeling  comes  in  aid 

Of  feeling,  and  diversity  of  strength  270 

Attends  us,  if  but  once  we  have  been  strong. 

Oh  !  mystery  of  man,  from  what  a  depth 

Proceed  thy  honors.     I  am  lost,  but  see 

In  simple  childhood  something  of  the  base 

On  which  thy  greatness  stands ;  but  this  I  feel, 

That  from  thyself  it  comes,  that  thou  must  give, 

Else  never  canst  receive.     The  days  gone  by 

Return  upon  me  almost  from  the  dawn 

Of  life  :  the  hiding-places  of  man's  power 

Open  ;  I  would  approach  them,  but  they  close.          280 

I  see  by  glimpses  now ;  when  age  comes  on, 

May  scarcely  see  at  all ;  and  I  would  give, 

While  yet  we  may,  as  far  as  words  can  give, 

Substance  and  life  to  what  I  feel,  enshrining, 

Such  is  my  hope,  the  spirit  of  the  Past 

For  future  restoration.  —  Yet  another 

Of  these  memorials  :  — 

One  Christmas-time, 
On  the  glad  eve  of  its  dear  holidays, 
Feverish,  and  tired,  and  restless,  I  went  forth 
Into  the  fields,  impatient  for  the  sight  290 


244  THE  PRELUDE. 

Of  those  led  palfreys  that  should  bear  us  home ; 

My  brothers  and  myself.     There  rose  a  crag, 

That,  from  the  meeting-point  of  two  highways 

Ascending,  overlooked  them  both,  far  stretched ; 

Thither,  uncertain  on  which  road  to  fix 

My  expectation,  thither  I  repaired, 

Scout-like,  and  gained  the  summit ;  'twas  a  day 

Tempestuous,  dark,  and  wild,  and  on  the  grass 

I  sate  half  sheltered  by  a  naked  wall ; 

Upon  my  right  hand  couched  a  single  sheep,  300 

Upon  my  left  a  blasted  hawthorn  stood ; 

With  those  companions  at  my  side,  I  watched, 

Straining  my  eyes  intensely,  as  the  mist 

Gave  intermitting  prospect  of  the  copse 

And  plain  beneath.     Ere  we  to  school  returned,  — 

That  dreary  time,  —  ere  we  had  been  ten  days 

Sojourners  in  my  father's  house,  he  died, 

And  I  and  my  three  brothers,  orphans  then, 

Followed  his  body  to  the  grave.     The  event, 

With  all  the  sorrow  that  it  brought,  appeared  310 

A  chastisement ;  and  when  I  called  to  mind 

That  day  so  lately  past,  when  from  the  crag 

I  looked  in  such  anxiety  of  hope ; 

With  trite  reflections  of  morality, 

Yet  in  the  deepest  passion,  I  bowed  low 

To  God,  Who  thus  corrected  my  desires ; 

And,  afterwards,  the  wind  and  sleety  rain, 

And  all  the  business  of  the  elements, 

The  single  sheep,  and  the  one  blasted  tree, 

And  the  bleak  music  from  that  old  stone  wall,  320 

The  noise  of  wood  and  water,  and  the  mist 


BOOK   TWELFTH.  245 

That  on  the  line  of  each  of  those  two  roads 

Advanced  in  such  indisputable  shapes ; 

All  these  were  kindred  spectacles  and  sounds 

To  which  I  oft  repaired,  and  thence  would  drink, 

As  at  a  fountain  ;  and  on  winter  nights, 

Down  to  this  very  time,  when  storm  and  rain 

Beat  on  my  roof,  or,  haply,  at  noon- day, 

While  in  a  grove  I  walk,  whose  lofty  trees, 

Laden  with  summer's  thickest  foliage,  rock  330 

In  a  strong  wind,  some  working  of  the  spirit, 

Some  inward  agitations  thence  are  brought, 

Whate'er  their  office,  whether  to  beguile 

Thoughts  over  busy  in  the  course  they  took, 

Or  animate  an  hour  of  vacant  ease. 


BOOK  THIRTEENTH. 


IMAGINATION  AND    TASTE,  HOW  IMPAIRED  AND 
RESTORED.— Concluded. 

FROM  Nature  doth  emotiqn  come,  and  moods 

Of  calmness  equally  are  Nature's  gift : 

This  is  her  glory ;  these  two  attributes 

Are  sister  horns  that  constitute  her  strength. 

Hence  Genius,  born  to  thrive  by  interchange 

Of  peace  and  excitation,  finds  in  her 

His  best  and  purest  friend ;  from  her  receives 

That  energy  by  which  he  seeks  the  truth, 

From  her  that  happy  stillness  of  the  mind 

Which  fits  him  to  receive  it  when  unsought.  n 

Such  benefit  the  humblest  intellects 
Partake  of,  each  in  their  degree ;  'tis  mine 
To  speak,  what  I  myself  have  known  and  felt ; 
Smooth  task  !  for  words  find  easy  way,  inspired 
By  gratitude,  and  confidence  in  truth. 
Long  time  in  search  of  knowledge  did  I  range 
The  field  of  human  life,  in  heart  and  mind 
Benighted ;  but,  the  dawn  beginning  now 
To  reappear,  'twas  proved  that  not  in  vain 


BOOK    THIRTEENTH.  247 

I  had  been  taught  to  reverence  a  Power  20 

That  is  the  visible  quality  and  shape 

And  image  of  right  reason  ;  that  matures 

Her  processes  by  steadfast  laws  ;  gives  birth 

To  no  impatient  or  fallacious  hopes, 

No  heat  of  passion  or  excessive  zeal, 

No  vain  conceits  :  provokes  to  no  quick  turns 

Of  self-applauding  intellect ;  but  trains 

To  meekness,  and  exalts  by  humble  faith ; 

Holds  up  before  the  mind  intoxicate 

With  present  objects,  and  the  busy  dance  30 

Of  things  that  pass  away,  a  temperate  show 

Of  objects  that  endure  ;  and  by  this  course 

Disposes  her,  when  over-fondly  set 

On  throwing  off  incumbrances,  to  seek 

In  man,  and  in  the  frame  of  social  life, 

Whate'er  there  is  desirable  and  good 

Of  kindred  permanence,  unchanged  in  form 

And  function,  or,  through  strict  vicissitude 

Of  life  and  death,  revolving.     Above  all 

Were  re-established  now  those  watchful  thoughts         40 

Which,  seeing  little  worthy  or  sublime 

In  what  the  Historian's  pen  so  much  delights 

To  blazon  —  power  and  energy  detached 

From  moral  purpose  —  early  tutored  me 

To  look  with  feelings  of  fraternal  love 

Upon  the  unassuming  things  that  hold 

A  silent  station  in  this  beauteous  world. 

Thus  moderated,  thus  composed,  I  found 
Once  more  in  Man  an  object  of  delight, 


248  THE  PRELUDE. 

Of  pure  imagination,  and  of  love ;  50 

And,  as  the  horizon  of  my  mind  enlarged, 

Again  I  took  the  intellectual  eye 

For  my  instructor,  studious  more  to  see 

Great  truths,  than  touch  and  handle  little  ones. 

Knowledge  was  given  accordingly ;  my  trust 

Became  more  firm  in  feelings  that  had  stood 

The  test  of  such  a  trial ;  clearer  far 

My  sense  of  excellence  —  of  right  and  wrong : 

The  promise  of  the  present  time  retired 

Into  its  true  proportion  ;  sanguine  schemes,  60 

Ambitious  projects,  pleased  me  less ;  I  sought 

For  present  good  in  life's  familiar  face, 

And  built  thereon  my  hopes  of  good  to  come. 

With  settling  judgments  now  of  what  would  last 
And  what  would  disappear ;  prepared  to  find 
Presumption,  folly,  madness,  in  the  men 
Who  thrust  themselves  upon  the  passive  world 
As  Rulers  of  the  world ;  to  see  in  these, 
Even  when  the  public  welfare  is  their  aim, 
Plans  without  thought,  or  built  on  theories  70 

Vague  and  unsound ;  and  having  brought  the  books 
Of  modern  statists  to  their  proper  test, 
Life,  human  life,  with  all  its  sacred  claims 
Of  sex  and  age,  and  heaven-descended  rights, 
Mortal,  of  those  beyond  the  reach  of  death ; 
And  having  thus  discerned  how  dire  a  thing 
Is  worshipped  in  that  idol  proudly  named 
"  The  Wealth  of  Nations,"  where  alone  that  wealth 
Is  lodged,  and  how  increased ;  and  having  gained 


BOOK    THIRTEENTH.  249 

A  more  judicious  knowledge  of  the  worth  80 

And  dignity  of  individual  man, 

No  composition  of  the  brain,  but  man 

Of  whom  we  read,  the  man  whom  we  behold 

With  our  own  eyes  —  I  could  not  but  inquire  — 

Not  with  less  interest  than  heretofore, 

But  greater,  though  in  spirit  more  subdued  — 

Why  is  this  glorious  creature  to  be  found 

One  only  in  ten  thousand  ?     What  one  is, 

Why  may  not  millions  be  ?     What  bars  are  thrown 

By  Nature  in  the  way  of  such  a  hope  ?  90 

Our  animal  appetites  and  daily  wants, 

Are  these  obstructions  insurmountable  ? 

If  not,  then  others  vanish  into  air. 

"  Inspect  the  basis  of  the  social  pile  : 

Inquire,"  said  I,  "  how  much  of  mental  power 

And  genuine  virtue  they  possess  who  live 

By  bodily  toil,  labor  exceeding  far 

Their  due  proportion,  under  all  the  weight 

Of  that  injustice,  which  upon  ourselves 

Ourselves  entail."     Such  estimate  to  frame  100 

I  chiefly  looked  (what  need  to  look  beyond?) 

Among  the  natural  abodes  of  men, 

Fields  with  their  rural  works  ;  recalled  to  mind 

My  earliest  notices ;  with  these  compared 

The  observations  made  in  later  youth, 

And  to  that  day  continued.  —  For  the  time 

Had  never  been  when  throes  of  mighty  Nations 

And  the  world's  tumult  unto  me  could  yield, 

How  far  soe'er  transported  and  possessed, 

Full  measure  of  content ;  but  still  I  craved  no 


250  THE  PRELUDE. 

An  intermingling  of  distinct  regards 

And  truths  of  individual  sympathy 

Nearer  ourselves.     Such  often  might  be  gleaned 

From  the  great  City,  else  it  must  have  proved 

To  me  a  heart-depressing  wilderness ; 

But  much  was  wanting  :  therefore  did  I  turn 

To  you,  ye  pathways,  and  ye  lonely  roads ; 

Sought  you  enriched  with  everything  I  prized, 

With  human  kindnesses  and  simple  joys. 


Oh  !  next  to  one  dear  state  of  bliss,  vouchsafed      120 
Alas  !  to  few  in  this  untoward  world, 
The  bliss  of  walking  daily  in  life's  prime 
Through  field  or  forest  with  the  maid  we  love, 
While  yet  our  hearts  are  young,  while  yet  we  breathe 
Nothing  but  happiness,  in  some  low  nook, 
Deep  vale,  or  anywhere,  the  home  of  both, 
From  which  it  would  be  misery  to  stir : 
Oh  !  next  to  such  enjoyment  of  our  youth, 
In  my  esteem,  next  to  such  dear  delight, 
Was  that  of  wandering  on  from  day  to  day  130 

Where  I  could  meditate  in  peace,  and  cull 
Knowledge  that  step  by  step  might  lead  me  on 
To  wisdom  ;  or,  as  lightsome  as  a  bird 
Wafted  upon  the  wind  from  distant  lands, 
Sing  notes  of  greeting  to  strange  fields  or  groves, 
Which  lacked  not  voice  to  welcome  me  in  turn : 
And,  when  that  pleasant  toil  had  ceased  to  please, 
Converse  with  men,  where  if  we  meet  a  face 
We  almost  meet  a  friend,  on  naked  heaths 


BOOK   THIRTEENTH.  251 

With  long  long  ways  before,  by  cottage  bench,  140 

Or  well-spring  where  the  weary  traveller  rests. 

Who  doth  not  love  to  follow  with  his  eye 
The  windings  of  a  public  way  ?  the  sight, 
Familiar  object  as  it  is,  hath  wrought 
On  my  imagination  since  the  morn 
Of  childhood,  when  a  disappearing  line 
One  daily  present  to  my  eyes,  that  crossed 
The  naked  summit  of  a  far-off  hill 
Bejond  the  limits  that  my  feet  had  trod, 
Was  like  an  invitation  into  space  150 

Boundless,  or  guide  into  eternity. 
Yes,  something  of  the  grandeur  which  invests 
The  mariner  who  sails  the  roaring  sea 
Through  storm  and  darkness,  early  in  my  mind 
Surrounded,  too,  the  wanderers  of  the  earth ; 
Grandeur  as  much,  and  loveliness  far  more. 
Awed  have  I  been  by  strolling  Bedlamites ; 
From  many  other  uncouth  vagrants  (passed 
In  fear)  have  walked  with  quicker  step  ;  but  why 
Take  note  of  this?     When  I  began  to  enquire,  160 

To  watch  and  question  those  I  met,  and  speak 
Without  reserve  to  them,  the  lonely  roads 
Were  open  schools  in  which  I  daily  read 
With  most  delight  the  passions  of  mankind, 
Whether  by  words,  looks,  sighs,  or  tears,  revealed ; 
There  saw  into  the  depth  of  human  souls, 
Souls  that  appear  to  have  no  depth  at  all 
To  careless  eyes.     And  —  now  convinced  at  heart 
How  little  those  formalities,  to  which 


252  THE  PRELUDE. 

With  overweening  trust  alone  we  give  170 

The  name  of  Education,  have  to  do 

With  real  feeling  and  just  sense  ;  how  vain 

A  correspondence  with  the  talking  world 

Proves  to  the  most ;  and  called  to  make  good  search 

If  man's  estate,  by  doom  of  Nature  yoked 

With  toil,  be  therefore  yoked  with  ignorance ; 

If  virtue  be  indeed  so  hard  to  rear, 

And  intellectual  strength  so  rare  a  boon  — 

I  prized  such  walks  still  more,  for  there  I  found 

Hope  to  my  hope,  and  to  my  pleasure  peace  180 

And  steadiness,  and  healing  and  repose 

To  every  angry  passion.     There  I  heard, 

From  mouths  of  men  obscure  and  lowly,  truths 

Replete  with  honor ;  sounds  in  unison 

With  loftiest  promises  of  good  and  fair. 

There  are  who  think  that  strong  affection,  love 
Known  by  whatever  name,  is  falsely  deemed 
A  gift,  —  to  use  a  term  which  they  would  use,  — 
Of  vulgar  nature  ;  that  its  growth  requires 
Retirement,  leisure,  language  purified  190 

By  manners  studied  and  elaborate  ; 
That  whoso  feels  such  passion  in  its  strength 
Must  live  within  the  very  light  and  air 
Of  courteous  usages  refined  by  art. 
True  is  it,  where  oppression  worse  than  death 
Salutes  the  being  at  his  birth,  where  grace 
Of  culture  hath  been  utterly  unknown, 
And  poverty  and  labor  in  excess 
From  day  to  day  pre-occupy  the  ground 


BOOK    THIRTEENTH.  253 

Of  the  affections,  and  to  Nature's  self  200 

Oppose  a  deeper  nature ;  there,  indeed, 

Love  cannot  be ;  nor  does  it  thrive  with  ease 

Among  the  close  and  overcrowded  haunts 

Of  cities,  where  the  human  heart  is  sick, 

And  the  eye  feeds  it  not,  and  cannot  feed. 

—  Yes,  in  those  wanderings  deeply  did  I  feel 

How  we  mislead  each  other ;  above  all, 

How  books  mislead  us,  seeking  their  reward 

From  judgments  of  the  wealthy  Few,  who  see 

By  artificial  lights  ;  how  they  debase  210 

The  Many  for  the  pleasure  of  those  Few; 

Effeminately  level  down  the  truth 

To  certain  general  notions,  for  the  sake 

Of  being  understood  at  once,  or  else 

Through  want  of  better  knowledge  in  the  heads 

That  framed  them  ;  flattering  self-conceit  with  words, 

That,  while  they  most  ambitiously  set  forth 

Extrinsic  differences,  the  outward  marks 

Whereby  society  has  parted  man 

From  man,  neglect  the  universal  heart.  220 

Here,  calling  up  to  mind  what  then  I  saw, 
A  youthful  traveller,  and  see  daily  now 
In  the  familiar  circuit  of  my  home, 
Here  might  I  pause,  and  bend  in  reverence 
To  Nature,  and  the  power  of  human  minds, 
To  men  as  they  are  men  within  themselves. 
How  oft  high  service  is  performed  within, 
When  all  the  external  man  is  rude  in  show,  — 
Not  like  a  temple  rich  with  pomp  and  gold, 


254  THE  PRELUDE. 

But  a  mere  mountain  chapel,  that  protects  230 

Its  simple  worshippers  from  sun  and  shower. 

Of  these,  said  I,  shall  be  my  song ;  of  these, 

If  future  years  mature  me  for  the  task, 

Will  I  record  the  praises,  making  verse 

Deal  boldly  with  substantial  things ;  in  truth 

And  sanctity  of  passion,  speak  of  these, 

That  justice  may  be  done,  obeisance  paid 

Where  it  is  due  :  thus  happy  shall  I  teach, 

Inspire  ;  through  unadulterated  ears 

Pour  rapture,  tenderness,  and  hope,  —  my  theme       240 

No  other  than  the  very  heart  of  man, 

As  found  among  the  best  of  those  who  live, 

Not  unexalted  by  religious  faith, 

Nor  uninformed  by  books,  good  books,  though  few, 

In  Nature's  presence  :  thence  may  I  select 

Sorrow,  that  is  not  sorrow,  but  delight ; 

And  miserable  love,  that  is  not  pain 

To  hear  of,  for  the  glory  that  redounds 

Therefrom  to  human  kind,  and  what  we  are. 

Be  mine  to  follow  with  no  timid  step  250 

Where  knowledge  leads  me  :  it  shall  be  my  pride 

That  I  have  dared  to  tread  this  holy  ground, 

Speaking  no  dream,  but  things  oracular ; 

Matter  not  lightly  to  be  heard  by  those 

Who  to  the  letter  of  the  outward  promise 

Do  read  the  invisible  soul ;  by  men  adroit 

In  speech,  and  for  communion  with  the  world 

Accomplished  ;  minds  whose  faculties  are  then 

Most' active  when  they  are  most  eloquent, 

And  elevated  most  when  most  admired.  260 


BOOK   THIRTEENTH.  255 

Men  may  be  found  of  other  mould  than  these, 

Who  are  their  own  upholders,  to  themselves 

Encouragement,  ard  energy,  and  will, 

Expressing  liveliest  thoughts  in  lively  words 

As  native  passion  dictates.     Others,  too, 

There  are  among  the  walks  of  homely  life 

Still  higher,  men  for  contemplation  framed, 

Shy,  and  unpractised  in  the  strife  of  phrase ; 

Meek  men,  whose  very  souls  perhaps  would  sink 

Beneath  them,  summoned  to  such  intercourse  :  270 

Theirs  is  the  language  of  the  heavens,  the  power, 

The  thought,  the  image,  and  the  silent  joy ; 

Words  are  but  under- agents  in  their  souls  : 

When  they  are  grasping  with  their  greatest  strength, 

They  do  not  breathe  among  them  :  this  I  speak 

In  gratitude  to  God,  who  feeds  our  hearts 

For  his  own  service  ;  knoweth,  loveth  us, 

When  we  are  unregarded  by  the  world. 

Also,  about  this  time  did  I  receive 
Convictions  still  more  strong  than  heretofore,  280 

Not  only  that  the  inner  frame  is  good, 
And  graciously  composed,  but  that,  no  less, 
Nature  for  all  conditions  wants  not  power 
To  consecrate,  if  we  have  eyes  to  see, 
The  outside  of  her  creatures,  and  to  breathe 
Grandeur  upon  the  very  humblest  face 
Of  human  life.     I  felt  that  the  array 
Of  act  and  circumstance,  and  visible  form, 
Is  mainly  to  the  pleasure  of  the  mind 
What  passion  makes  them  ;  that  meanwhile  the  forms  290 


256       „  THE  PRELUDE. 

Of  Nature  have  a  passion  in  themselves, 

That  intermingles  with  those  works  of  man 

To  which  she  summons  him ;  although  the  works 

Be  mean,  have  nothing  lofty  of  their  own ; 

And  that  the  Genius  of  the  Poet  hence 

May  boldly  take  his  way  among  mankind 

Wherever  Nature  leads,  that  he  hath  stood 

By  Nature's  side  among  the  men  of  old, 

And  so  shall  stand  forever.     Dearest  Friend  ! 

If  thou  partake  the  animating  faith  300 

That  poets,  even  as  Prophets,  each  with  each 

Connected  in  a  mighty  scheme  of  truth, 

Have  each  his  own  peculiar  faculty, 

Heaven's  gift,  a  sense  that  fits  him  to  perceive 

Objects  unseen  before,  thou  wilt  not  blame 

The  humblest  of  this  band  who  dares  to  hope 

That  unto  him  hath  also  been  vouchsafed 

An  insight  that  in  some  sort  he  possesses, 

A  privilege  whereby  a  work  of  his, 

Proceeding  from  a  source  of  untaught  things,  310 

Creative  and  enduring,  may  become 

A  power  like  one  of  Nature's.    To  a  hope 

Not  less  ambitious  once  among  the  wilds 

Of  Sarum's  Plain,  my  youthful  spirit  was  raised ; 

There,  as  I  ranged  at  will  the  pastoral  downs 

Trackless  and  smooth,  or  paced  the  bare  white  roads 

Lengthening  in  solitude  their  dreary  line, 

Time  with  his  retinue  of  ages  fled 

Backwards,  nor  checked  his  flight  until  I  saw 

Our  dim  ancestral  Past  in  vision  clear ;  320 

Saw  multitudes  of  men,  and,  here  and  there, 


BOOK   THIRTEENTH.  257 

A  single  Briton  clothed  in  wolf-skin  vest, 

With  shield  and  stone-axe,  stride  across  the  wold ; 

The  voice  of  spears  was  heard,  the  rattling  spear 

Shaken  by  arms  of  mighty  bone,  in  strength, 

Long  mouldered,  of  barbaric  majesty. 

I  called  on  Darkness  —  but  before  the  word 

Was  uttered,  midnight  darkness  seemed  to  take 

All  objects  from  my  sight ;  and  lo  !  again 

The  Desert  visible  by  dismal  flames ;  330 

It  is  the  sacrificial  altar,  fed 

With  living  men  —  how  deep  the  groans  !  the  voice 

Of  those  that  crowd  the  giant  wicker  thrills 

The  monumental  hillocks,  and  the  pomp 

Is  for  both  worlds,  the  living  and  the  dead. 

At  other  moments  — (for  through  that  wide  waste 

Three  summer  days  I  roamed)  where'er  the  Plain 

Was  figured  o'er  with  circles,  lines,  or  mounds, 

That  yet  survive,  a  work,  as  some  divine, 

Shaped  by  the  Druids,  so  to  represent  340 

Their  knowledge  of  the  heavens,  and  image  forth 

The  constellations  —  gently  was  I  charmed 

Into  a  waking  dream,  a  reverie 

That,  with  believing  eyes,  where'er  I  turned, 

Beheld  long-bearded  teachers,  with  white  wands 

Uplifted,  pointing  to  the  starry  sky, 

Alternately,  and  plain  below,  while  breath 

Of  music  swayed  their  motions,  and  the  waste 

Rejoiced  with  them  and  me  in  those  sweet  sounds. 

This  for  the  past,  and  things  that  may  be  viewed    35° 
Or  fancied  in  the  obscurity  of  years 


258  THE  PRELUDE, 

From  monumental  hints  :  and  thou,  O  Friend  ! 

Pleased  with  some  unpremeditated  strains 

That  served  those  wanderings  to  beguile,  hast  said 

That  then  and  there  my  mind  had  exercised 

Upon  the  vulgar  forms  of  present  things, 

The  actual  world  of  our  familiar  days, 

Yet  higher  power ;  had  caught  from  them  a  tone, 

An  image,  and  a  character,  by  books 

Not  hitherto  reflected.     Call  we  this  3&> 

A  partial  judgment  —  and  yet  why  ?  for  then 

We  were  as  strangers ;  and  I  may  not  speak 

Thus  wrongfully  of  verse,  however  rude, 

Which  on  thy  young  imagination,  trained 

In  the  great  City,  broke  like  light  from  far. 

Moreover,  each  man's  Mind  is  to  herself 

Witness  and  judge  ;  and  I  remember  well 

That  in  life's  every-day  appearances 

I  seemed  about  this  time  to  gain  clear  sight 

Of  a  new  world  —  a  world,  too,  that  was  fit  370 

To  be  transmitted,  and  to  other  eyes 

Made  visible  ;  as  ruled  by  those  fixed  laws 

Whence  spiritual  dignity  originates, 

Which  do  both  give  it  being  and  maintain 

A  balance,  an  ennobling  interchange 

Of  action  from  without  and  from  within ; 

The  excellence,  pure  function,  and  best  power 

Both  of  the  object  seen,  and  eye  that  sees. 


BOOK  FOURTEENTH. 


CONCLUSION. 

IN  one  of  those  excursions  (may  they  ne'er 

Fade  from  remembrance  !)  through  the  Northern  tracts 

Of  Cambria  ranging  with  a  youthful  friend, 

I  left  Bethgelert's  huts  at  couching-time, 

And  westward  took  my  way,  to  see  the  sun 

Rise,  from  the  top  of  Snowdon.     To  the  door 

Of  a  rude  cottage  at  the  mountain's  base 

We  came,  and  roused  the  shepherd  who  attends 

The  adventurous  stranger's  steps,  a  trusty  guide ; 

Then,  cheered  by  short  refreshment,  sallied  forth.        10 

It  was  a  close,  warm,  breezeless  summer  night, 
Wan,  dull,  and  glaring,  with  a  dripping  fog 
Low-hung  and  thick  that  covered  all  the  sky ; 
But,  undiscouraged,  we  began  to  climb 
The  mountain-side.     The  mist  soon  girt  us  round, 
And,  after  ordinary  travellers'  talk 
With  our  conductor,  pensively  we  sank 
Each  into  commerce  with  his  private  thoughts : 
Thus  did  we  breast  the  ascent,  and  by  myself 
Was  nothing  either  seen  or  heard  that  checked  20 


260  THE  PRELUDE. 

Those  musings  or  diverted,  save  that  once 

The  shepherd's  lurcher,  who,  among  the  crags, 

Had  to  his  joy  unearthed  a  hedgehog,  teased 

His  coiled-up  prey  with  barkings  turbulent. 

This  small  adventure,  for  even  such  it  seemed 

In  that  wild  place  and  at  the  dead  of  night, 

Being  over  and  forgotten,  on  we  wound 

In  silence  as  before.     With  forehead  bent 

Earthward,  as  if  in  opposition  set 

Against  an  enemy,  I  panted  up  30 

With  eager  pace  and  no  less  eager  thoughts. 

Thus  might  we  wear  a  midnight  hour  away, 

Ascending  at  loose  distance  each  from  each, 

And  I,  as  chanced,  the  foremost  of  the  band ; 

When  at  my  feet  the  ground  appeared  to  brighten 

And  with  a  step  or  two  seemed  brighter  still ; 

Nor  was  time  given  to  ask  or  learn  the  cause, 

For  instantly  a  light  upon  the  turf 

Fell  like  a  flash,  and  lo  !  as  I  looked  up, 

The  Moon  hung  naked  in  a  firmament  40 

Of  azure  without  cloud,  and  at  my  feet 

Rested  a  silent  sea  of  hoary  mist. 

A  hundred  hills  their  dusky  backs  upheaved 

All  over  this  still  ocean ;  and  beyond, 

Far,  far  beyond,  the  solid  vapors  stretched, 

In  headlands,  tongues,  and  promontory  shapes, 

Into  the  main  Atlantic,  that  appeared 

To  dwindle,  and  give  up  his  majesty, 

Usurped  upon  far  as  the  sight  could  reach. 

Not  so  the  ethereal  vault ;  encroachment  none  50 

Was  there,  nor  loss ;  only  the  inferior  stars 


BOOK  FOURTEENTH.  261 

Had  disappeared,  or  shed  a  fainter  light 

In  the  clear  presence  of  the  full-orbed  Moon, 

Who,  from  her  sovereign  elevation,  gazed 

Upon  the  billowy  ocean,  as  it  lay 

All  meek  and  silent,  save  that  through  a  rift  — 

Not  distant  from  the  shore  whereon  we  stood, 

A  fixed,  abysmal,  gloomy,  breathing-place  — 

Mounted  the  roar  of  waters,  torrents,  streams 

Innumerable,  roaring  with  one  voice  !  60 

Heard  over  earth  and  sea,  and,  in  that  hour, 

For  so  it  seemed,  felt  by  the  starry  heavens. 

When  into  air  partially  dissolved 
That  vision,  given  to  spirits  of  the  night, 
And  three  chance  human  wanderers,  in  calm  thought 
Reflected,  it  appeared  to  me  the  type 
Of  a  majestic  intellect,  its  acts 
And  its  possessions,  what  it  has  and  craves, 
What  in  itself  it  is,  and  would  become. 
There  I  beheld  the  emblem  of  a  mind  70 

That  feeds  upon  infinity,  that  broods 
Over  the  dark  abyss,  intent  to  hear 
Its  voices  issuing  forth  to  silent  light 
In  one  continuous  stream  ;  a  mind  sustained 
By  recognitions  of  transcendent  power, 
In  sense  conducting  to  ideal  form, 
In  soul  of  more  than  mortal  privilege. 
One  function,  above  all,  of  such  a  mind 
Had  Nature  shadowed  there,  by  putting  forth, 
'Mid  circumstances  awful  and  sublime,  80 

That  mutual  domination  which  she  loves 


262  THE  PRELUDE. 

To  exert  upon  the  face  of  outward  things, 

So  moulded,  joined,  abstracted,  so  endowed 

With  interchangeable  supremacy, 

That  men,  least  sensitive,  see,  hear,  perceive, 

And  cannot  choose  but  feel.     The  power,  which  all 

Acknowledge  when  thus  moved,  which  Nature  thus 

To  bodily  sense  exhibits,  is  the  express 

Resemblance  of  that  glorious  faculty 

That  higher  minds  bear  with  them  as  their  own.  90 

This  is  the  very  spirit  in  which  they  deal 

With  the  whole  compass  of  the  universe  : 

They  from  their  native  selves  can  send  abroad 

Kindred  mutations  ;  for  themselves  create 

A  like  existence  ;  and,  whene'er  it  dawns 

Created  for  them,  catch  it,  or  are  caught 

By  its  inevitable  mastery, 

Like  angels  stopped  upon  the  wing  by  sound 

Of  harmony  from  Heaven's  remotest  spheres. 

Them  the  enduring  and  the  transient  both  100 

Serve  to  exalt ;  they  build  up  greatest  things 

From  least  suggestions ;  ever  on  the  watch, 

Willing  to  work  and  to  be  wrought  upon, 

They  need  not  extraordinary  calls 

To  rouse  them  ;  in  a  world  of  life  they  live, 

By  sensible  impressions  not  enthralled, 

But  by  their  quickening  impulse  made  more  prompt 

To  hold  fit  converse  with  the  spiritual  world, 

And  with  the  generations  of  mankind 

Spread  over  time,  past,  present,  and  to  come,  no 

Age  after  age,  till  Time  shall  be  no  more. 

Such  minds  are  truly  from  the  Deity, 


BOOK  FOURTEENTH.  263 

For  they  are  Powers  ;  and  hence  the  highest  bliss 

That  flesh  can  know  is  theirs  —  the  consciousness 

Of  Whom  they  are,  habitually  infused 

Through  every  image  and  through  every  thought, 

And  all  affections  by  communion  raised 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  human  to  divine ; 

Hence  endless  occupation  for  the  Soul, 

Whether  discursive  or  intuitive  ;  120 

Hence  cheerfulness  for  acts  of  daily  life, 

Emotions  which  best  foresight  need  not  fear, 

Most  worthy  then  of  trust  when  most  intense. 

Hence,  amid  ills  that  vex  and  wrongs  that  crush 

Our  hearts  —  if  here  the  words  of  Holy  Writ 

May  with  fit  reverence  be  applied  —  that  peace 

Which  passeth  understanding,  that  repose 

In  moral  judgments  which  from  this  pure  source 

Must  come,  or  will  by  man  be  sought  in  vain. 

Oh  !  who  is  he  that  hath  his  whole  life  long  13° 

Preserved,  enlarged,  this  freedom  in  himself? 
For  this  alone  is  genuine  liberty  : 
Where  is  the  favored  being  who  hath  held 
That  course  unchecked,  unerring,  and  untired, 
In  one  perpetual  progress  smooth  and  bright? — 
A  humbler  destiny  have  we  retraced, 
And  told  of  lapse  and  hesitating  choice, 
And  backward  wanderings  along  thorny  ways  : 
Yet  —  compassed  round  by  mountain  solitudes, 
Within  whose  solemn  temple  I  received  140 

My  earliest  visitations,  careless  then 
Of  what  was  given  me  ;  and  which  now  I  range, 


264  THE  PRELUDE. 

A  meditative,  oft  a  suffering  man  — 

Do  I  declare  —  in  accents  which,  from  truth 

Deriving  cheerful  confidence,  shall  blend 

Their  modulation  with  these  vocal  streams  — 

That,  whatsoever  falls  my  better  mind, 

Revolving  with  the  accidents  of  life, 

May  have  sustained,  that,  howsoe'er  misled, 

Never  did  I,  in  quest  of  right  and  wrong,  150 

Tamper  with  conscience  from  a  private  aim ; 

Nor  was  in  any  public  hope  the  dupe 

Of  selfish  passions  ;  nor  did  ever  yield 

Wilfully  to  mean  cares  or  low  pursuits, 

But  shrunk  with  apprehensive  jealousy 

From  every  combination  which  might  aid 

The  tendency,  too  potent  in  itself, 

Of  use  and  custom  to  bow  down  the  soul 

Under  a  growing  weight  of  vulgar  sense, 

And  substitute  a  universe  of  death  160 

For  that  which  moves  with  light  and  life  informed, 

Actual,  divine,  and  true.     To  fear  and  love, 

To  love  as  prime  and  chief,  for  there  fear  ends, 

Be  this  ascribed ;  to  early  intercourse, 

In  presence  of  sublime  or  beautiful  forms, 

With  the  adverse  principles  of  pain  and  joy  — 

Evil,  as  one  is  rashly  named  by  men 

Who  know  not  what  they  speak.     By  love  subsists 

All  lasting  grandeur,  by  pervading  love, 

That  gone,  we  are  as  dust.  —  Behold  the  fields  170 

In  balmy  spring-time  full  of  rising  flowers 

And  joyous  creatures ;  see  that  pair,  the  lamb 

And  the  lamb's  mother,  and  their  tender  ways 


BOOK  FOURTEENTH.  265 

Shall  touch  thee  to  the  heart ;  thou  callest  this  love, 

And  not  inaptly  so,  for  love  it  is, 

Far  as  it  carries  thee.     In  some  green  bower 

Rest,  and  be  not  alone,  but  have  thou  there 

The  One  who  is  thy  choice  of  all  the  world : 

There  linger,  listening,  gazing,  with  delight 

Impassioned,  but  delight  how  pitiable  !  180 

Unless  this  love  by  a  still  higher  love 

Be  hallowed,  love  that  breathes  not  without  awe, 

Love  that  adores,  but  on  the  knees  of  prayer, 

By  heaven  inspired ;  that  frees  from  chains  the  soul, 

Lifted,  in  union  with  the  purest,  best, 

Of  earth-born  passions,  on  the  wings  of  praise 

Bearing  a  tribute  to  the  Almighty's  Throne. 

This  spiritual  Love  acts  not  nor  can  exist 
Without  Imagination,  which,  in  truth, 
Is  but  another  name  for  absolute  power  190 

And  clearest  insight,  amplitude  of  mind, 
And  Reason  in  her  most  exalted  mood. 
This  faculty  hath  been  the  feeding  source 
Of  our  long  labor  :  we  have  traced  the  stream 
From  the  blind  cavern  whence  is  faintly  heard 
Its  natal  murmur ;  followed  it  to  light 
And  open  day ;  accompanied  its  course 
Among  the  ways  of  Nature,  for  a  time 
Lost  sight  of  it  bewildered  and  engulphed  ; 
Then  given  it  greeting  as  it  rose  once  more  200 

In  strength,  reflecting  from  its  placid  breast 
The  works  of  man,  and  face  of  human  life  ; 
And  lastly,  from  its  progress  have  we  drawn 


266  THE  PRELUDE. 

Faith  in  life  endless,  the  sustaining  thought 
Of  human  Being,  Eternity,  and  God. 

Imagination  having  been  our  theme, 
So  also  hath  that  intellectual  Love, 
For  they  are  each  in  each,  and  cannot  stand 
Dividually.  —  Here  must  thou  be,  O  man  ! 
Power  to  thyself ;  no  helper  hast  thou  here ;  210 

Here  keepest  thou  in  singleness  thy  state  : 
No  other  can  divide  with  thee  this  work : 
No  secondary  hand  can  intervene 
To  fashion  this  ability ;  'tis  thine, 
The  prime  and  vital  principle  is  thine 
In  the  recesses  of  thy  nature,  far 
From  any  reach  of  outward  fellowship, 
Else  is  not  thine  at  all.     But  joy  to  him, 
Oh,  joy  to  him  who  here  hath  sown,  hath  laid 
Here,  the  foundation  of  his  future  years  !  aao 

For  all  that  friendship,  all  that  love  can  do, 
Allrfhat  a  darling  countenance  can  look 
Or  dear  voice  utter,  to  complete  the  man, 
Perfect  him,  made  imperfect  in  himself, 
All  shall  be  his  :  and  he  whose  soul  hath  risen 
Up  to  the  height  of  feeling  intellect 
Shall  want  no  humbler  tenderness ;  his  heart 
Be  tender  as  a  nursing  mother's  heart ; 
Of  female  softness  shall  his  life  be  full, 
Of  humble  cares  and  delicate  desires,  230 

Mild  interests  and  gentle  sympathies. 

Child  of  my  parents  !     Sister  of  my  soul ! 
Thanks  in  sincerest  verse  have  been  elsewhere 


BOOK  FOURTEENTH.  267 

Poured  out  for  all  the  early  tenderness 

Which  I  from  thee  imbibed  :  and  'tis  most  true 

That  later  seasons  owed  to  thee  no  less ; 

For,  spite  of  thy  sweet  influence  and  the  touch 

Of  kindred  hands  that  opened  out  the  springs 

Of  genial  thought,  in  childhood,  and  in  spite 

Of  all  that  unassisted  I  had  marked  240 

In  life  or  nature  of  those  charms  minute 

That  win  their  way  into  the  heart  by  stealth, 

Still,  to  the  very  going  out  of  youth, 

I  too  exclusively  esteemed  that  love, 

And  sought  that  beauty,  which,  as  Milton  sings, 

Hath  terror  in  it.     Thou  didst  soften  down 

This  over-sternness  ;  but  for  thee,  dear  Friend  ! 

My  soul,  too  reckless  of  mild  grace,  had  stood 

In  her  original  self  too  confident, 

Retained  too  long  a  countenance  severe  ;  250 

A  rock  with  torrents  roaring,  with  the  clouds 

Familiar,  and  a  favorite  of  the  stars  : 

But  thou  didst  plant  its  crevices  with  flowers, 

Hang  it  with  shrubs  that  twinkle  in  the  breeze, 

And  teach  the  little  birds  to  build  their  nests 

And  warble  in  its  chambers.     At  a  time 

When  Nature,  destined  to  remain  so  long 

Foremost  in  my  affections,  had  fallen  back 

Into  a  second  place,  pleased  to  become 

A  handmaid  to  a  nobler  than  herself,  260 

When  every  day  brought  with  it  some  new  sense 

Of  exquisite  regard  for  common  things, 

And  all  the  earth  was  budding  with  these  gifts 

Of  more  refined  humanity,  thy  breath, 


268  THE  PRELUDE. 

Dear  Sister  !  was  a  kind  of  gentler  spring 

That  went  before  my  steps.     Thereafter  came 

One  whom  with  thee  friendship  had  early  paired ; 

She  came,  no  more  a  phantom  to  adorn 

A  moment,  but  an  inmate  of  the  heart, 

And  yet  a  spirit,  there  for  me  enshrined  270 

To  penetrate  the  lofty  and  the  low ; 

Even  as  one  essence  of  pervading  light 

Shines,  in  the  brightness  of  ten  thousand  stars, 

And  the  meek  worm  that  feeds  her  lonely  lamp 

Couched  in  the  dewy  grass. 

With  such  a  theme, 

Coleridge  !   with  this  my  argument,  of  thee 
Shall  I  be  silent?     O  capacious  Soul ! 
Placed  on  this  earth  to  love  and  understand, 
And  from  thy  presence  shed  the  light  of  love, 
Shall  I  be  mute,  ere  thou  be  spoken  of  ?  280 

Thy  kindred  influence  to  my  heart  of  hearts 
Did  also  find  its  way.     Thus  fear  relaxed 
Her  over-weening  grasp ;  thus  thoughts  and  things 
In  the  self-haunting  spirit  learned  to  take 
More  rational  proportions ;  mystery, 
The  incumbent  mystery  of  sense  and  soul, 
Of  life  and  death,  time  and  eternity, 
Admitted  more  habitually  a  mild 
Interposition  —  a  serene  delight 

In  closelier  gathering  cares,  such  as  become  290 

A  human  creature,  howsoe'er  endowed, 
Poet,  or  destined  for  a  humbler  name ; 
And  so  the  deep  and  enthusiastic  joy, 
The  rapture  of  the  hallelujah  sent 


BOOK  FOURTEENTH.  269 

From  all  that  breathes  and  is,  was  chastened,  stemmed 

And  balanced  by  pathetic  truth,  by  trust 

In  hopeful  reason,  leaning  on  the  stay 

Of  Providence  ;  and  in  reverence  for  duty, 

Here,  if  need  be,  struggling  with  storms,  and  there 

Strewing  in  peace  life's  humblest  ground  with  herbs,    300 

At  every  season  green,  sweet  at  all  hours. 

And  now,  O  Friend  !  this  history  is  brought 
To  its  appointed  close  :  the  discipline 
And  consummation  of  a  Poet's  mind, 
In  everything  that  stood  most  prominent, 
Have  faithfully  been  pictured  :  we  have  reached 
The  time  (our  guiding  object  from  the  first) 
When  we  may,  not  presumptuously,  I  hope, 
Suppose  my  powers  so  far  confirmed,  and  such 
My  knowledge,  as  to  make  me  capable  310 

Of  building  up  a  Work  that  shall  endure. 
Yet  much  hath  been  omitted,  as  need  was  ; 
Of  books  how  much  !  and  even  of  the  other  wealth 
That  is  collected  among  woods  and  fields, 
Far  more  :  for  nature's  secondary  grace 
Hath  hitherto  been  barely  touched  upon, 
The  charm  more  superficial  that  attends 
Her  works,  as  they  present  to  Fancy's  choice 
Apt  illustrations  of  the  moral  world, 
Caught  at  a  glance,  or  traced  with  curious  pains.        320 

Finally,  and  above  all,  O  Friend  !  (I  speak 
With  due  regret)  how  much  is  overlooked 
In  human  nature  and  her  subtle  ways, 


270  THE  PRELUDE. 

As  studied  first  in  our  own  hearts,  and  then 

In  life  among  the  passions  of  mankind 

Varying  their  composition  and  their  hue, 

Where'er  we  move,  under  the  diverse  shapes 

That  individual  character  presents 

To  an  attentive  eye.     For  progress  meet, 

Along  this  intricate  and  difficult  path,  330 

Whate'er  was  wanting,  something  had  I  gained, 

As  one  of  many  schoolfellows  compelled 

In  hardy  independence  to  stand  up 

Amid  conflicting  interests,  and  the  shock 

Of  various  tempers ;  to  endure  and  note 

What  was  not  understood,  though  known  to  be ; 

Among  the  mysteries  of  love  and  hate, 

Honor  and  shame,  looking  to  right  and  left, 

Unchecked  by  innocence  too  delicate, 

And  moral  notions  too  intolerant,  340* 

Sympathies  too  contracted.     Hence,  when  called 

To  take  a  station  among  men,  the  step 

Was  easier,  the  transition  more  secure, 

More  profitable  also ;  for  the  mind 

Learns  from  such  timely  exercise  to  keep 

In  wholesome  separation  the  two  natures, 

The  one  that  feels,  the  other  that  observes. 

Yet  one  word  more  of  personal  concern ;  — 
Since  I  withdrew  unwillingly  from  France, 
I  led  an  undomestic  wanderer's  life,  350 

In  London  chiefly  harbored,  whence  I  roamed, 
Tarrying  at  will  in  many  a  pleasant  spot 
Of  rural  England's  cultivated  vales 


BOOK  FOURTEENTH.  271 

Or  Cambrian  solitudes.     A  youth  —  (he  bore 

The  name  of  Calvert  —  it  shall  live,  if  words 

Of  mine  can  give  it  life,)  in  firm  belief 

That  by  endowments  not  from  me  withheld 

Good  might  be  furthered  —  in  his  last  decay 

By  a  bequest  sufficient  for  my  needs 

Enabled  me  to  pause  for  choice,  and  walk  360 

At  large  and  unrestrained,  nor  damped  too  soon 

By  mortal  cares.     Himself  no  Poet,  yet 

Far  less  a  common  follower  of  the  world, 

He  deemed  that  my  pursuits  and  labors  lay 

Apart  from  all  that  leads  to  wealth,  or  even 

A  necessary  maintenance  insures, 

Without  some  hazard  to  the  finer  sense  : 

He  cleared  a  passage  for  me,  and  the  stream 

Flowed  in  the  bent  of  Nature. 

Having  now 

Told  what  best  merits  mention,  further  pains  370 

Our  present  purpose  seems  not  to  require, 
And  I  have  other  tasks.     Recall  to  mind 
The  mood  in  which  this  labor  was  begun, 

0  Friend  !     The  termination  of  my  course 
Is  nearer  now,  much  nearer ;  yet  even  then, 
In  that  distraction  and  intense  desire, 

1  said  unto  the  life  which  I  had  lived, 

Where  art  thou?     Hear  I  not  a  voice  from  thee, 

Which  'tis  reproach  to  hear?     Anon  I  rose 

As  if  on  wings,  and  saw  beneath  me  stretched  380 

Vast  prospect  of  the  world  which  I  had  been 

And  was ;  and  hence  this  Song,  which  like  a  lark 

I  have  protracted,  in  the  unwearied  heavens 


272  THE  PRELUDE. 

Singing,  and  often  with  more  plantive  voice 
To  earth  attempered  and  her  deep-drawn  sighs, 
Yet  centring  all  in  love,  and  in  the  end 
All  gratulant,  if  rightly  understood. 


Whether  to  me  shall  be  allotted  life, 
And,  with  life,  power  to  accomplish  aught  of  worth, 
That  will  be  deemed  no  insufficient  plea  390 

For  having  given  the  story  of  myself, 
Is  all  uncertain  :  but,  beloved  Friend  ! 
When,  looking  back,  thou  seest,  in  clearer  view 
Than  any  liveliest  sight  of  yesterday, 
That  summer,  under  whose  indulgent  skies 
Upon  smooth  Quantock's  airy  ridge  we  roved 
Unchecked,  or  loitered  'mid  her  sylvan  combs,  ^ 

Thou  in  bewitching  words,  with  happy  heart, 
Didst  chaunt  the  vision  of  that  Ancient  Man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner,  and  rueful  woes  400 

Didst  utter  of  the  Lady  Christabel ; 
And  I,  associate  with  such  labor,  steeped 
In  soft  forgetfulness  the  livelong  hours, 
Murmuring  of  him  who,  joyous  hap,  was  found, 
After  the  perils  of  his  moonlight  ride, 
Near  the  loud  waterfall ;  or  her  who  sate 
In  misery  near  the  miserable  Thorn ; 
When  thou  dost  to  that  summer  turn  thy  thoughts, 
And  hast  before  thee  all  which  then  we  were, 
To  thee,  in  memory  of  that  happiness,  410 

It  will  be  known,  by  thee  at  least,  my  Friend ! 
Felt,  that  the  history  of  a  Poet's  mind 


BOOK  FOURTEENTH.  273 

Is  labor  not  unworthy  of  regard  : 
To  thee  the  work  shall  justify  itself. 

The  last  and  later  portions  of  this  gift 
Have  been  prepared,  not  with  the  buoyant  spirits 
That  were  our  daily  portion  when  we  first 
Together  wantoned  in  wild  Poesy, 
But,  under  pressure  of  a  private  grief, 
Keen  and  enduring,  which  the  mind  and  heart,  420 

That  in  this  meditative  history 
Have  been  laid  open,  needs  must  make  me  feel 
More  deeply,  yet  enable  me  to  bear 
More  firmly ;-  and  a  comfort  now  hath  risen 
From  hope  that  thou  art  near,  and  wilt  be  soon 
Restored  to  us  in  renovated  health  ; 
When,  after  the  first  mingling  of  our  tears, 
'Mong  other  consolations  we  may  draw 
Some  pleasure  from  the  offering  of  my  love. 

Oh  !  yet  a  few  short  years  of  useful  life,  430 

And  all  will  be  complete,  thy  race  be  run, 
Thy  monument  of  glory  will  be  raised ; 
Then,  though  (too  weak  to  tread  the  ways  of  truth) 
This  age  fall  back  to  old  idolatry, 
Though  men  return  to  servitude  as  fast 
As  the  tide  ebbs,  to  ignominy  and  shame 
By  nations  sink  together,  we  shall  still 
Find  solace  —  knowing  what  we  have  learnt  to  know, 
Rich  in  true  happiness  if  allowed  to  be 
Faithful  alike  in  forwarding  a  day  44° 

Of  firmer  trust,  joint  laborers  in  the  work 


274  THE  PRELUDE. 

(Should  Providence  such  grace  to  us  vouchsafe) 

Of  their  deliverance  surely  yet  to  come. 

Prophets  of  Nature,  we  to  them  will  speak 

A  lasting  inspiration,  sanctified 

By  reason,  blest  by  faith  :  what  we  have  loved, 

Others  will  love,  and  we  will  teach  them  how  ; 

Instruct  them  how  the  mind  of  man  becomes 

A  thousand  times  more  beautiful  than  the  earth 

On  which  he  dwells,  above  this  frame  of  things          450 

(Which,  'mid  all  revolution  in  the  hopes 

And  fears  of  men,  doth  still  remain  unchanged) 

In  beauty  exalted,  as  it  is  itself 

Of  quality  and  fabric  more  divine. 


CHRONOLOGICAL  AND  ITINERARY. 


1770.  Birth. 

1778.  At  Hawkshead  School. 

1787.  At  Cambridge. 

1790.  Tour  through  Italy,  France,  and  Switzerland. 

1791.  Graduation;   Visits  London,  Wales,  and  France. 

1792.  Return  to  London. 

1793.  At  Isle  of  Wight. 

1 794.  At  Penrith  with  Calvert. 

1795.  Settled  at  Racedown. 

1797.  Removed  to  Alfoxden. 

1798.  At  Goslar  in  Germany. 

1799.  Leaves  Goslar,  begins  Prelude;  At  Sockburn;    Settled  at  Dove 

Cottage,  Grasmere. 

1802.  Marriage. 

1803.  Tour  in  Scotland. 

1805.  Death  of  his  brother,  Captain  Wordsworth. 

1808.  Removes  to  Allan  Bank,  Grasmere,  where  he  writes  the  Excur- 
sion. 

1811.  Removes  to  the  Parsonage,  Grasmere. 

1813.  Removes  to  Rydal  Mount. 

1814.  Second  visit  to  Scotland. 
1820.  Visits  the  Continent. 
1831.  Visits  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
1839.  Oxford  Degree. 

1842.  Appointed  Poet  Laureate. 

1850.  Death. 


NOTES. 


BOOK  FIRST. 

PREFATORY  NOTE.  —  In  July,  1797,  Coleridge  visited  Wordsworth, 
for  the  first  time,  at  Racedown  in  Dorsetshire,  where  he  and  his 
sister  had  set  up  their  home  two  years  before.  The  two  poets  were 
mutually  pleased  with  each  other,  and  they  desired  to  be  nearer  in 
order  to  have  frequent  intercourse,  and  a  month  later  the  Words- 
worths  removed  to  Alfoxden  near  Nether  Stowey,  Somersetshire,  where 
Coleridge  resided. 

The  poets  rambled  over  the  Quantock  Hills  and  held  high  com- 
munion. During  one  of  these  excursions,  feeling  the  need  of  money, 
they  planned  a  joint  production  for  the  New  Monthly  Magazine. 
They  set  about  the  work  in  earnest,  and  selected  as  a  subject  the 
"Ancient  Mariner,"  founded  upon  a  dream  of  one  of  Coleridge's 
friends.  Coleridge  supplied  most  of  the  incidents  and  almost  all  the 
lines.  Wordsworth  contributed  the  incident  of  the  killing  of  the 
albatross  and  some  of  the  lines.  They  soon  found  that  their  methods 
did  not  harmonize,  and  the  "  Mariner  "  was  left  to  Coleridge,  while 
Wordsworth  wrote  upon  the  common  incidents  of  everyday  life.  When 
the  "Mariner"  was  finished  Wordsworth  had  so  many  pieces  ready 
that  they  concluded  to  publish  a  joint  volume,  and  this  they  did  under 
the  title  "  Lyrical  Ballads,"  with  the  "  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Marinere  " 
heading  the  volume.  Cottle,  the  publisher,  gave  Wordsworth  ^30  for 
his  poems,  and  made  a  separate  bargain  with  Coleridge  for  the  "  Mari- 
ner." With  the  proceeds  of  their  work  in  their  pockets  they  con- 
cluded to  visit  Germany  and  study  the  language,  and  in  September, 
1798,  they  went  to  Hamburg  where  they  met  Klopstock,  the  "German 
Milton."  At  Hamburg  Coleridge  left  the  Wordsworths  and  went  to 


278  NOTES. 

Gottingen,  dived  into  metaphysics,  and  the  world  got  no  more  "Ancient 
Mariners."  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  wintered  in  Goslar,  an  old 
imperial  town  in  Hanover. 

Lines  i-io.  In  the  spring  of  1799  the  Wordsworths,  after  a  cold 
dreary  winter  at  Goslar,  returned  to  England ;  as  they  left  the  city  and 
felt  the  spring  breeze  fan  their  cheeks  Wordsworth  poured  forth  the 
gladsome  strain  with  which  the  Prelude  opens.  This  was  in  his 
thirtieth  year.  The  Prelude  was  completed  in  1805. 

47.    Friend:  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

62.  Place:  At  Sockburn-on-Tees,  county  Durham,  where,  on  re- 
turning to  England,  they  visited  their  kindred,  the  Hutchinsons. 

72.    Vale:  Grasmere. 

74.  Cottage:  While  at  Sockburn,  Wordsworth,  with  his  brother 
John  and  Coleridge,  made  a  pedestrian  tour  of  the  Lake  district,  and 
it  was  on  this  occasion  that  they  saw  the  cottage  which  is  here  mentioned. 
It  had  once  been  a  public  house,  with  a  sign  of  "The  Dove  and 
Olive  Bough,"  and  is  now  known  as  Dove  Cottage.  It  stands  on  the 
right  of  the  road  entering  Grasmere  from  Rydal;  it  fronts  the  lake, 
while  in  the  rear  is  a  garden  and  orchard  leading  to  the  wooded  moun- 
tains above  it.  Here  still  bloom  the  primroses  and  daffodils  planted  by 
the  poet,  and  here  he  wrote  many  of  his  poems.  See  De  Quincey's 
Recollections  of  the  Lakes. 

84.  Rustled ':  The  sense  of  hearing  was  remarkably  acute  in  Words- 
worth, and  its  workings  are  prominent  in  his  poetry. 

1 06.  "Journey  :  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  left  Sockburn  on  the  igth 
of  December,  1 709,  and  walking  over  the  frozen  ground,  turning  aside 
to  see  the  icy  waterfalls  and  the  changing  aspects  of  cloud  and  sun- 
shine, they  consumed  three  days  in  the  journey.  At  night  they  lodged 
in  the  cottages,  and  Wordsworth  gave  voice  to  the  thoughts  of  the  day. 
A  great  part  of  "  Heai  tleap  Well "  was  composed  on  one  of  these 
evenings,  from  a  tradition  he  heard  that  day  from  a  shepherd.  They 
reached  their  cottage  on  the  2ist. 

108-20.  The  life  :  This  seemed  to  many  of  the  poet's  friends  a  mad 
project.  With  only  a  hundred  pounds  a  year  they  were  turning  their 
backs  upon  the  world,  with  dalesmen  for  their  neighbors  and  verse- 
making  for  their  business.  Here  was  produced  the  most  of  that  poetry 
which  has  made  Wordsworth  immortal. 


NOTES.  279 

187-90.  Mithridates  of  Pontus,  after  having  been  vanquished  by 
Pompey,  fled  into  Armenia,  B.C.  131.  See  Morley's  English  Writers, 
Ch.  V. 

191.  Sertorius  :  A  Roman  general  who,  being  proscribed  by  Sulla, 
fled  into  Spain  and  thence  to  Mauritania. 

192.  Fortunate  Isles  :  In  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar  Sertorius  met  some 
sailors,  who  told  him  of  the  islands  in  the  Atlantic  supposed  to  be  the 
Canaries. 

202.  Heroes,  who  were  reported  to  have  been  seen  by  an  old  pilot 
of  the  seas,  who  landed  at  Lisbon  in  the  early  part  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  They  claimed  to  have  descended  from  a  band  of  Christians 
who  fled  from  Spain  when  it  was  conquered  by  the  Moslems. 

206-10.  Frenchman:  Dominique  de  Gourgues,  who  in  1567  sailed 
from  Bordeaux  with  a  force,  to  avenge  the  massacre  of  French  colonists 
in  Florida  by  the  Spaniards  under  Menendez. 

212.  Gustavus  I.  of  Sweden  who,  during  the  conflict  with  Denmark, 
was  obliged  to  flee  for  his  life,  and  disguised  in  rags  worked  as  a  miner 
and  woodcutter  in  Dalecarlia.  When  the  time  came  he  aroused  the 
peasants  and  defeated  the  Danes,  and  was  offered  the  crown. 

21  C.  "At  Wallace's  name  what  Scottish  blood 

But  boils  up  in  a  spring-tide  flood." —  BURNS. 

270-75.  Wordsworth  was  born  at  Cockermouth  in  the  north  country 
of  England  and  in  sight  of  the  Scottish  hills.  The  town  ts  situated  at 
the  junction  of  two  rivers,  the  Cocker  and  the  Derwent.  He  was 
sprung  from  the  old  North-Humbrian  stock. 

283.  Towers:  Cockermouth  Castle,  standing  on  an  eminence  not 
far  from  the  manor-house  in  which  Wordsworth  was  born,  was  built  by 
the  first  lord  of  Allerdale  in  the  reign  of  William  I.  as  a  border  defence. 
It  was  taken  by  Douglas  in  the  border  foray  (1387),  and  was  the  prison 
of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  (1568).  It  was  dismantled  by  the  Parliamen- 
tarians. It  is  one  of  the  finest  castle  ruins  in  England.  See  sonnet, 
"Spirit  of  Cockermouth  Castle." 

286.  Terrace-walk  :  At  the  garden,  in  the  rear  of  the  manor-house, 
is  the  terrace  upon  which  the  poet  had  his  childish  sports.  The  house 
and  its  surroundings  are  unaltered  since  the  poet's  father  lived  there, 
and  the  present  owner  is  glad  to  show  strangers  the  house  and  grounds. 


280  NOTES. 

288-300.  At  this  early  age  he  took  delight  in  his  own  thoughts  and 
his  own  company,  and  was  touched  with  "  those  visions  of  the  hills  " 
which  produced  in  him  the  feeling  of  reverence  and  awe  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Nature.  The  necessary  sequence  of  this  life  at  Cockermouth 
is  the  incident  described  so  magnificently  in  357  and  the  following  lines, 
where  he  sings  of  how  his  mind  was  affected  by  that  imaginative  lone- 
liness of  spirit  in  which  he  was  so  overawed  by  the  mysterious  and  the 
terrible  in  Nature. 

304.  Vale:  At  Hawkshead,  a  small  market-town  in  the  vale  of 
Esthwaite,  the 'most  picturesque  district  of  Lancashire.  This  old  town 
presents  us  more  of  interest  as  connected  with  Wordsworth  than 
Grasmere  even,  as  it  has  suffered  less  from  modern  "  improvements," 
and  for  this  reason  is  less  frequented  by  the  hasty  tourist  who  allows 
only  a  few  days  in  which  to  "do"  the  Lakes.  There  is  no  more 
delightful  spot  in  the  district  for  recreative  enjoyment;  whether  we 
wander  by  the  lakeside,  or  loiter  on  the  fellside,  whether  we  ascend 
the  summit  of  Wetherlam  where  the  ravens  build,  or  rest  in  the  vale 
where  "  woodcocks  sange,"  Nature,  by  its  color  and  forms,  moods  and 
movements,  is  both  a  delight  and  a  revelation. 

A  quaint  old  town  is  Hawkshead,  and  the  ancient  look  it  bears, 
Its  church,  its  school,  its  dwellings,  its  streets,  its  lanes,  its  squares, 
All  are  irregularities,  all  angles,  twists,  and  crooks, 
Penthouses  and  gables  over  archways,  weints,  and  nooks. 

307.  Birthdays:  Wordsworth,  at  the  age  of  nine,  entered  the 
Hawkshead  school,  where  he  led  the  life  that  did  so  much  to  fit  him 
for  a  poet.  "  High  pressure  was  unknown  in  that  school.  Nature  and 
freedom  had  full  swing."  —  PROFESSOR  SHAIRP. 

311.  The  heights:  The  hills  leading  up  to  the  moor  between 
Hawkshead  and  Coniston.  See  Through  the  Wordsworth  Country, 
Knight  and  Goodwin. 

326.    Vale :  Yewdale.     A  beautiful  pastoral  vale  near  Hawkshead. 

335-  Crag:  Ravens' Crag  in  Yewdale.  There  are  no  naked  crags 
in  Esthwaite.  —  KNIGHT. 

357.    See  note,  lines  288-300. 

359.  Cove:  By  the  side  of  Esthwaite  lake.  One  going  from  Hawks- 
head  by  the  east  shore  of  the  lake  can  realize  this  spot. 


NOTES.  281 

370.  Craggy  ridge  :  The  mountain  (Ironkeld)  from  High  Arnside  to 
Tom  Heights. 

378.  Huge  peak  :  To  what  mountain  this  refers  it  is  difficult  to  say, 
for  it  might  be  Nab  Scar,  if  he  rowed  from  the  west  bank  of  the  lake,  or, 
if  he  started  from  the  east  side,  Pike  o'  Stickle. 

400-10.  This  educational  power  of  Nature  never  ceased;  day  and 
night,  summer  and  winter,  its  silent  influence  stole  into  his  soul,  and 
brought  him  near  to  Nature  and  near  to  God. 

425-63.  A  picture  more  vivid,  more  true  to  fact,  more  instinct  with 
fine  imagination  and  delicate  feeling,  was  never  drawn.  Coleridge  cites 
it  in  proof  of  his  fourth  characteristic  excellency  of  Wordsworth's  work. 
See  Preface. 

490.   Becks  amongst  the  hills  of  Yewdale. 

499.  Cottages:  Wordsworth  lived  for  nine  years  with  one  Anne 
Tyson  for  whose  simple  character  he  had  a  profound  regard.  The 
house  still  remains  unaltered.  It  is  a  stone  dwelling  of  two  storys ;  the 
basement  floor  is  of  Coniston  slate.  The  door  is  interesting  as  having 
upon  it  the  old  "  latch  "  mentioned  in  Book  Second. 

543.  The  concluding  line  of  this  exquisitely  drawn  picture  might 
seem  to  some  an  exaggeration,  but  the  dalesmen  tell  us  that  the  sound 
of  the  ice  breaking  up  in  this  valley  is  just  as  here  described.  It  is 
partly  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  lake  is  surrounded  by  mountains,  caus- 
ing the  sound  to  reverberate. 

586.  The  school  life  was  just  what  you  would  expect  of  a  vigorous 
country  youth.  In  all  his  sports  there  was  nothing  to  distinguish  him 
from  other  boys,  except  that  in  the  midst  of  the  scramble  for  the  raven's 
nest  or  the  run  of  "hare  and  hounds,"  feelings  came  to  him  from 
Nature  herself;  the  invisible,  quiet  Life  of  the  world  spake  to  him 
rememberable  things. 


BOOK  SECOND. 

5-10.   Never  did  boy  spend  a  healthier,  purer,  or  h'appier  school- 
time.     His  love  for  Nature  was  no  different  from  that  of  other  boys. 


282  NOTES. 

It  was  a  time  full  of  giddy  bliss  and  joy  of  being,  yet  he  was  gaining 
Truths  that  wake  to  perish  never. 

26.  In  after  life,  when  sorrow  and  pain  come  upon  us,  it  will  help 
us  rise  above  them  if  we  recollect  the  joy  and  force  of  youth.  The 
possibility  of  turning  the  lamentable  waste  of  excessive  sorrow  into  a 
source  of  strength  is  a  central  idea  in  Wordsworth's  philosophy. 

32.  The  remembrance  of  the  brightness  and  gladness  of  his  youth 
seemed  to  arouse  another  consciousness. 

39.  Notwithstanding  the  presence  of  the  "Assembly  room"  in  the 
"  square "  at  Hawkshead,  it  is  easy  for  the  visitor  to  picture  there  the 
centre  of  the  school-boy's  sports. 

56.  Windermere :  The  largest  of  the  English  lakes,  and  not  far 
from  Hawkshead. 

58-65.  The  three  islands  are  easily  identified :  Belle  Isle,  Lily  of 
the  Valley  Island,  and  Lady  Holme.  Upon  Lady  Holme  there  was,  in 
the  time  of  Henry  VIII.,  a  chapel  dedicated  to  St.  Mary. 

77.  The  stillness  of  the  place  quieted  their  emulation  and  jealousy. 
This  influence  of  Nature  upon  Wordsworth  was  what  developed  his 
peculiarity  as  a  man  and  a  poet. 

102.  At  Conishead  Priory.     There  are  many  remains  of  the  Druid 
worship  in  the  Lake  country,  as  it  was  the  home  of  the  Brigantes,  the 
least  civilized  tribe  of  Britain.     See  sonnet,  Long  Meg  and  her  Daugh- 
ters.    The  Circle  at  Keswick  is  composed  of  forty-eight  upright  stones. 

103.  Furness  Abbey,  the  largest  abbey  in  England  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Fountain's  Abbey,  contained  sixty-five  acres;  it  was  founded 
by  Stephen  in  1127.    The  old  name  of  Furness  was  Bekansghyll  —  Glen 
of  Deadly  Nightshade  —  from  an  herb  Bekan  which  grew  there.     It 
was  dedicated  to  the  Blessed  Trinity  and  St.  Mary.     In  these  grounds, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  old  walls,  now  is  seen  a  hotel  for  summer 
tourists ! 

137.  Cartmell  Sands,  where  Windermere,  through  the  Leven,  enters 
the  sea. 

140.  White  Lion  Inn  at  Bowness.  The  location  is  easily  identified 
at  the  present  time. 

1 59.  An  exact  description  of  the  scene  from  Bowness  Church  where 
the  old  tavern  stood. 


NOTES.  283 

1 68.  Robert  Greenwood,  afterwards  Senior  Fellow  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Cambridge. 

171.  These  silent  influences  "  instilled  drop  by  drop  "  into  his  being, 
were  moulding  his  future. 

185.   Mountain:  Wetherlam  or  Coniston  Old  Man.  ' 

193-94.  This  is  an  accurate  description  of  the  rising  of  the  moon 
over  the  southern  shore  of  Esthwaite,  with  Gunners  How  at  the  left. 

197.    Esthwaite, — 

Where  deep  and  low  the  hamlets  lie 
Beneath  their  little  patch  of  sky 
And  little  plot  of  stars.  —  Peter  Bell. 

201-3.  The  first  step  in  Wordsworth's  education,  when  the  influences 
of  Nature  were  unconsciously  received,  was  now  closing,  and  the 
second,  when  the  influences  were  consciously  sought,  was  opening. 

280.  The  props  of  his  early  impressions  were  his  boyish  sports,  and 
when  he  turned  away  from  them,  still  the  impression  remained.  He 
had  begun  to  realize  all  that  he  had  been  learning  unconsciously. 

302-10.  In  these  scenes  of  sublimity  and  calm  he  was  consecrated 
to  be  the  poet-priest  of  Nature.  . 

333-   Friend :  The  Rev.  John  Flemming,  of  Rayrigg,  Windermere. 

339.    Latch :  Still  on  the  door  of  the  old  cottage. 

343.   Eminence  :  One  of  the  heights  northeast  of  Hawkshead. 

347.  The  light  which  came  to  him  here  became  the  "Master-light 
of  all  his  seeing."  See  Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality. 

368-9.  He  now  began  to  feel  the  influence  of  his  own  soul  on 
Nature;  he  began  to  be  a  poet. 

401-9.  Nature  now  began  to  put  on  the  appearance  of  personality, 
with  whom  he  could  commune.  It  is  a  wonderful  picture  of  a  youthful 
life  in  communion  with  the  Being  of  the  world. 

413.  Towards  the  Uncreated:  "The  looking  thitherward  through 
Nature  and  his  own  moral  being,  so  as  to  have  both  based  on  one 
Divine  order  "  is  what  Dr.  Hudson  considered  Wordsworth's  "  Master 
Vision." 

421.  In  the  following  lines  we  have  both  a  prayer  and  an  anthem, 
the  "Gloria  in  Excelsis ."  He  was  now  in  his  seventeenth  year.  The 
history  of  his  boyhood  is  completed  in  the  adoration  and  love  of  God. 


284  NOTES. 

Looking  back  upon  these  years  he  recognizes  that  the  faithful,  temper- 
ate, and  quiet  character  of  his  life  has  been  due  to  the  early  association 
with  the  beautiful  and  the  sublime  things  in  the  outward  world.  This 
is  the  philosophy  of  the  great  "  Ode."  There  is  here  the  same  atmos- 
phere which  permeates  the  Psalms :  "  I  will  lift  up  mine  'eyes  unto  the 
mountains."  Also  St.  Paul :  "  In  Him  we  live  and  move  and  have  our 
being."  Dean  Stanley  illustrated  the  blessings  of  the  pure  in  heart 
from  the  writings  of  Wordsworth. 

452.  Coleridge  was  a  charity  boy  at  Christ's  Hospital,  London. 
It  was  founded  on  the  site  of  Grey  Friars  Monastery,  by  Edward 
VI.  It  is  commonly  called  "The  Blue  Coat  School,"  as  the  dress 
of  the  boys  is  a  blue  coat,  a  yellow  petticoat,  a  red  girdle  about  the 
waist,  yellow  stockings,  a  clergyman's  band  round  the  neck,  and  a 
closely  fitting  black  cap.  The  classes  are  called  "  Grecians "  and 
"  Deputy-Grecians."  Coleridge  belonged  to  the  former.  Every  Easter 
Monday  the  boys  visit  the  Royal  Exchange,  and  every  Easter  Tuesday 
the  Lord  Mayor,  at  the  Mansion  House. 

454-60.  Wordsworth's  ideas  of  society  and  the  state  had  been  re- 
ceived contemptuously  by  those  who  did  not  give  themselves  the 
trouble  to  understand  them. 

466.   Coleridge  had  gone  to  the  Mediterranean  in  search  of  health. 


BOOK   THIRD. 

1-6.  Through  the  liberality  of  two  uncles,  the  education  of  Words- 
worth was  prolonged  beyond  his  school-days.  Lord  Lonsdale,  whose 
agent  the  poet's  father  was,  had  forcibly  borrowed  from  him  .£500  and 
refused  to  repay  it.  This  left  the  fortunes  of  the  Wordsworths  at  a 
low  ebb,  and  the  uncles  discerning  the  talents  of  the  brothers  (William 
and  Christopher)  enabled  them  to  obtain  a  Cambridge  education. 
Wordsworth,  in  October,  1787,  entered  St.  Johns  College,  Cambridge. 
His  education  at  the  hands  of  Nature  was  to  cease  for  a  time.  It  was 
a  great  change  from  the  retirement  of  the  Grammar  School  at  Hawks- 
head.  Cambridge  represents  to  the  approaching  student  no  such 


NOTES.  285 

picturesque  array  of  steeples,  towers,  and  domes  as  her  sister  Oxford ; 
but  her  special  boast  is  King's  College  Chapel,  with  its  lofty  pinnacles, 
fretted  roof  of  stone,  and  huge  windows  of  stained  glass.  The  Uni- 
versity consists  of  seventeen  colleges.  Trinity  is  the  largest  in  the 
number  of  its  buildings  and  students,  and  St.  Johns,  founded  by  the 
mother  of  Henry  VII.  is  next.  In  the  Dining  Hall  of  St.  Johns  may  be 
seen  the  portrait  of  Wordsworth  painted  at  the  request  of  the  Master 
and  Fellows. 

7.  Wordsworth  went  from  York  to  Cambridge  by  the  road  which 
enters  the  city  from  Girton.  —  KNIGHT. 

8.  The  Academical  costume  of  a  University  man,  or  gownsman,  is  a 
closely  fitting  cap  with  a  covered  board  forming  the  crown,  from  the 
centre  of  which  hangs  a  tassel;   a  gown  of  black  reaching  nearly  to 
the  ankles;    knee-breeches,  and  silk  stockings.     These  are  worn  all  of 
the  time  except  from  12  M.  to  4  P.M.,  when  the  student  is  at  his  exercise. 

13,  14.  How  many  a  country  boy  has  had  a  similar  experience  as 
he  entered  the  college  town  for  the  first  time ! 

15.  Near  Magdalene  College  are  the  ruins  of  a  camp  or  fortress 
used  to  defend  the  Fen-land  (Cambridge)  against  William  I. 

1 6.  Named  from  the  college,  which  it  connects  with  those  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Cam. 

17.  The  Hoop  Inn  still  exists. 

26.  The  newcomer  at  Cambridge  is  inducted  into  his  rooms  by  a 
gyp,  or  college  servant,  who  attends  upon  a  number  of  students;  he 
takes  the  former  tenant's  furniture  at  a  valuation  by  the  college  uphol- 
sterer. But  he  has  to  supply  one  deficiency,  —  a  tea-set,  decanters,  etc. 

32.  The  gowns  of  the  various  colleges  were  different  from  each 
other,  and  also  from  those  worn  by  the  officers. 

43.  "  These  wine  parties  are  the  most  common  entertainments, 
being  the  cheapest  and  most  convenient."  —  BRISTED,  Five  Years  in 
an  English  University. 

47,  48.  All  of  the  colleges  are  constructed  in  quadrangles,  or  courts. 
Although  Wordsworth's  room  is  not  pointed  out  to  us  by  the  officials, 
we  know  that  it  is  one  of  two  answering  to  this  description.  The 
entrances  to  the  rooms  are  dark  and  low,  a  contrast  to  the  comfortable 
rooms  themselves.  The  quaint  appurtenances,  such  as  bookcases  of 
scholastic  sort  sunk  into  the  walls;  little  nooks  of  studies  large  enough 


286  NO  TES. 

to  hold  a  man  in  an  arm-chair;  garrets  which  the  old  priests  used  for 
oratories,  but  which  now  hold  the  Cantab's  wine. 

61.  All  of  the  details  here  are  exact.  The  statue  of  Newton  is 
full-size.  In  his  right  hand  he  holds  a  roll  which  rests  upon  the  fore- 
ringer  of  the  left  hand;  his  face  is  raised  as  if  looking  off  into  the  upper 
sphere. 

64-75.  "  The  little  interests  of  the  place  were  not  great  enough  for 
one  accustomed  to  the  solemn  and  awful  interests  of  Nature." — REV. 
S.  BROOKE.  Medallists  and  wranglers  could  be  had  for  the  asking, 
but  a  Wordsworth  could  not  afford  to  delay  in  such  small  matters  as 
striving  for  University  prizes  or  for  a  high  place  upon  the  Tripos.  A 
Chinese  system  which  produced  "stall-fed"  memories  was  not  his  ideal 
of  education. 

90-143.  He  was  living  a  double  life  at  Cambridge:  one  with  the 
students;  another  with  himself.  Even  in  the  Fen-country  he  turned 
to  Nature  instinctively  and  lived  in  her  presence.  He  was  thus  saved 
from  becoming  artificial. 

144-54.  Sometimes  he  betrayed  his  inner  life,  but  as  at  Hawkshead 
he  was  in  appearance  little  different  from  the  other  students. 

155—65.  Through  the  "logic  of  the  eye"  he  was  convinced  that 
Nature  was  not  a  dead  machine,  but  was  pervaded  by  a  living  presence, 
and  that  this  was  a  unity.  In  this  is  the  essential  difference  between 
Wordsworth's  poetry  and  that  of  Pope,  which  viewed  Nature  as  a  vast 
machine  with  God  standing  apart.  Wordsworth  made  Nature  a  new 
thing  to  man  by  adding  what  the  true  artist  must  ever  add,  — 

the  gleam, 
The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land. 

170.  The  philosophic  theory  of  Wordsworth  is  founded  upon  the 
identity  of  our  childish  instincts  and  our  enlightened  understanding. 

230.  Arnold  is  the  type  of  English  action ;  Wordsworth  is  the  type 
of  English  thought.  —  F.  W.  ROBERTSON. 

246-55.  Even  this  was  no  unimportant  element  in  the  education  of 
a  poet  who  would  view  human  nature  in  all  its  aspects.  Being 
William  Wordsworth  he  could  afford  to  "  drift." 

258-69.  On  a  nature  susceptible  as  his  was,  a  residence  in  that 
ancient  seat  of  learning  could  not  but  tell  powerfully;  if  he  had 


NOTES.  287 

learned  no  more  than  what  silently  stole  into  him,  the  time  would  not 
have  been  misspent. 

275.  Remains  of  this  mill  are  to  be  seen  about  three  miles  from 
Cambridge. 

283.    See  Milton's  Penseroso. 

298-300.  Of  this  exploit  Sir  Francis  Doyle,  in  his  Oxford  lectures, 
remarks:  "A  worthy  clerical  friend  of  mine,  one  of  the  best  poetical 
critics  I  know,  and  also  one  of  the  soundest  judges  of  port  wine,  always 
shakes  his  head  about  this,  and  says :  '  Wordsworth's  intentions  were 
good,  no  doubt,  but  I  greatly  fear  that  his  standard  of  intoxication  was 
miserably  low.' " 

312.  Surplice:  On  Saturday  evenings,  Sundays,  and  Saints'  days 
the  students  wear  surplices  instead  of  gowns. 

322.  His  genius  grew  too  deep  and  strong  to  grow  fast.  "He  read 
the  face  of  Nature;  he  read  Chaucer,  Spenser,  and  Milton;  he  amused 
himself  and  rested,  and  since  he  was  Wordsworth  he  could  not  have 
done  better."  —  REV.  S.  BROOKE.  For  a  companion  picture  see  Cabot's 
Life  of  Emerson,  Vol.  I.,  page  57. 

Wordsworth's  sister  Dorothy,  in  a  letter  written  in  1791,  says: 
"William  reads  Italian,  Spanish,  French,  Greek,  Latin,  and  English."  — 
KNIGHT. 

462.  The  Revival  of  Learning  was  in  the  sphere  of  culture  and  art 
what  the  Reformation  was  in  the  sphere  of  religion  and  politics.  The 
first,  intellectual;  the  second,  ethical. 

473.   The  begging  scholar  was  common  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

476.  All  were  connected  with  the  Reformation  and  Revival  of 
Learning. 

491.    He  lost  the  shadow,  but  kept  the  substance  of  education. 

580-81.  In  this  miniature  world  he  had  developed  in  him  the  human 
element.  Poetry  demands  God  immanent  in  Man  and  Nature. 


288  NOTES. 


BOOK  FOURTH. 

i-io.  On  the  road  from  Kendal  to  Windermere.  The  description 
is  exceedingly  accurate.  Wordsworth's  home  at  Cockermouth  was 
broken  up,  and  his  sister  was  living  with  relatives;  this  accounts  for  his 
return  to  Hawkshead. 

13.   The  ferry,  called  "Nab,"  is  below  Bowness. 

1 8.   Hill  •  Leading  from  the  ferry  to  Sawrey. 

21.  Hawkshead  Church.     An  old  Norman  structure  built  in  1160. 
In  it  is  a  private  chapel  of  Archbishop  Sandys. 

22.  The  position  of  the  church  on  the  hill  above  the  village  is  such 
that  it  is  a  conspicuous  object  from  the  Sawrey   Hill.     In  tramping 
through  this  region  the  Prelude  is  the  best  of  guides. 

26.    See  note,  line  74,  Book  I. 

28-39.  Anne  Tyson,  with  whom  the  poet  had  spent  nine  years. 
She  died  at  Colthouse,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Vale,  in  1 789,  at  the 
age  of  83. 

47,  48.  There  is  no  trace  and  no  tradition  of  the  "  Stone  table  and 
dark  Pine  "  at  Hawkshead.  In  Peter  Bell  we  have,  — 

To  the  stone  table  in  my  garden, 

Loved  haunt  of  many  a  summer  hour.  —  KNIGHT. 

51.  The  famous  brook  presents  some  difficulties  to  the  relic  hunter. 
Crossing  the  lane  leading  to  the  cottage  we  find  it  nearly  covered 
with  large,  slate  flags,  giving  the  name  Flag  Street  to  one  of  the  alleys 
of  Hawkshead.  The  house  adjoining  the  garden  is  not  Dame  Tyson's; 
hers  is  a  few  rods  distant. 

61.  Changes  had  been  wrought  in  his  life  of  which  he  was  uncon- 
scious, and  what  seemed  to  him  a  useless  expenditure  of  time  was 
necessary  to  the  union  of  Nature  and  Humanity. 

76.    His  Academical  attire. 

82.  The  cottage  faces  southwest,  and  in  one  of  the  two  upper  rooms 
the  poet  must  have  slept. 

89.   No  remains  of  the  ash  can  be  found. 

130.  Wordsworth  seems  to  have  been  well  aware  of  the  suspicions 
his  conduct  would  arouse  among  the  dalesmen. 


NOTES.  289 

164-71.  The  evening  hour  in  the  presence  of  Nature  influenced 
him  like  the  face  of  an  old  friend;  strength  and  comfort  —  the  sense 
of  the  majesty  of  human  life  entered  his  heart.  Those  matins  and 
vespers  were  times  of  consecration. 

191-92.   The  result  of  his  University  life. 

280-81.  "We  must  often  reach  the  higher  by  going  back  a  little, 
and  Wordsworth's  '  boundless  chase  of  trivial  pleasure '  was  a  necessary 
parenthesis  in  his  education."  —  REV.  S.  BROOKE. 

310.   At  a  farmhouse  near  Hawkshead. 

323.  At  this  baptismal  hour  his  path  must  have  been  from  some  of 
the  heights  north  of  Hawkshead.  Here  he  was  consecrated  to  "  truth 
and  purity,  and  high  unworldly  endeavor." 

380.  The  brook  is  Sawrey  beck,  on  the  road  from  Windermere  to 
Hawkshead,  and  the  long  ascent  is  the  second  from  the  ferry. 

387.  The  narrative  with  which  he  closes  the  book  is  a  proof  that  his 
interest  was  now  turning  toward  man.  This  narrative  would  not  have 
been  appropriate  at  an  earlier  date. 


BOOK  FIFTH. 

1-28.  Wordsworth  here  sounds  those  depths  and  ascends  those 
heights  which  are  the  haunts  of  the  contemplative  mind.  His  words 
are  the  words  of  a  seer. 

18-28.  Then  also  man  !  We  seem  here  to  find  a  reason  for  his 
deliberately  sacrificing  this  great  poem  during  these  years,  when,  to 
have  published  it  would  have  meant  so  much  to  him. 

29-49.  Nature  is  the  type  of  permanence  and  reality.  "  Man  is 
transient  and"  ever  changing,  and  imprints  himself  only  upon  man." 
This  is  not  the  attitude  of  an  anchorite  who  declares  all  things  under 
the  sun  to  be  but  vanity  and  vexation,  but  of  the  seer  who  knows  all 
things  to  be  but  the  shadow  of  what  is  behind  the  veil. 

60.  "  I  read  while  at  school  all  Fielding's  works,  Don  Quixote,  Gil 
Bias,  Gulliver's  Travels,  and  the  Tale  of  the  Tub."  —  W.  W. 

88-92.    All  that  is  of  lasting  value  in  the  intellectual  achievement  of 


290  NOTES. 

the  poet,  according  to  this  dream,  are  the  books  of  poetry  and  mathe- 
matical science,  but  the  ruin  that  is  to  engulf  all  else !  what  is  it? 

140.  Mr.  Duffield,  the  translator  of  Don  Quixote,  says,  that  although 
no  criticism  of  the  work  had  appeared,  yet  Wordsworth  in  the  above 
lines  has  given  a  most  poetical  insight  into  the  real  nature  of  the 
Hidalgo  of  La  Mancha;  he  has  shown  us  that  it  was  a  nature  com- 
pacted of  the  madman  and  the  poet.  The  earliest  criticism  of  the 
Spaniards  on  the  work  was  that  one  could  not  tell  whether  Don  was 
speaking,  or  Cervantes,  or  the  Cid. 

152.  "Though  this  be  madness,  yet  there's  method  in't."  —  SHAKE- 
SPEARE. 

162.  See  Coleridge's  sixth  characteristic  of  Wordsworth,  in  Preface, 
page  xxiii. 

185-91.  This  is  Nature  teaching,  seriously  and  sweetly  through  the 
affections;  it  is  knowledge  inhaled  like  a  fragrance. 

198.  Wordsworth  believed  in  the  motto  non  multa  sed  tmiltutn  as 
applied  to  reading,  and  Emerson  is  perhaps,  next  to  Wordsworth,  the 
best  exponent  of  the  results  of  such  a  course. 

221.  Wordsworth  has  been  accused  of  Pantheism.  If  presenting  a 
new  insight  to  mankind  and  turning  theology  into  religion  be  Panthe- 
ism, then  he  merits  the  accusation. 

230-41.  A  high  tribute  to  his  early  teachers,  —  his  mother,  Rev.  Mr. 
Gilbanks  of  Cockermouth,  Mrs.  Birkett  of  Penrith,  and  the  Master  at 
Hawkshead. 

257.  Mrs.  Wordsworth  died  when  the  poet  was  in  his  eighth  year. 
She  used  to  say  she  had  no  fears  for  her  other  children,  but  as  for 
\Villiam,  he  would  be  remarkable  either  for  good  or  evil. 

264-93.  Wordsworth,  fortunate  as  he  was  in  his  birthplace,  was  no 
less  fortunate  in  having  a  mother  worthy  of  such  a  tribute  as  he  here 
pays  to  her.  The  picture  is  drawn  with  a  masterly  stroke,  and  we 
feel  that  it  is  from  such  sources  that  the  best  part  of  edncation 
proceeds. 

298-340.  The  touch  of  wholesome  banter  in  this  passage  is  exceed- 
ingly interesting,  and  its  application  is  eminently  judicious.  He  was 
among  the  first  to  protest  against  educational  hot-beds.  Wordsworth 
seldom  indulges  in  satire,  but  this  passage  proves  conclusively  that  had 
he  chosen  to  use  it,  he  might  have  attained  to  eminence  as  a  satirical 


NOTES.  291 

poet.  The  Edinburgh  Polyphemus  might  well  have  congratulated  him- 
self that  Wordsworth  preferred  the  attitude  of  haughty  indifference  to 
his  malignant  criticisms. 

346.  In  a  system  of  education  where  acquirement  counts  for  more 
than  culture,  the  spirit  of  egotism  is  fostered  rather  than  the  spirit  of 
self-forgetfulness. 

364.  Of  the  following  description  Coleridge  said :  "  Had  I  met 
these  lines  running  wild  in  the  deserts  of  Arabia,  I  should  have  instant- 
ly screamed  out  —  Wordsworth  !  " 

383-84.  The  frequent  description  of  such  scenes  as  this  shows  us 
how  sensitive  was  the  poet's  ear.  He  recalls  not  only  the  general 
aspect  of  the  place,  but  the  sounds  return  as  well.  He  hears  no  noises 
in  Nature;  he  hears  voices.  He  often  arrests  our  minds  by  the  single 
allusion  to  sound  :  — 

How  calm,  how  still,  the  only  sound 
The  dripping  of  the  oar  suspended. 
Again :  — 

Loud  is  the  vale !  the  voice  is  up 

With  which  she  speaks  when  storms  are  gone. 

He  both  observes  and  hears  Nature. 

391.  Esthwaite. 

392.  Churchyard:  The  description  here  is  accurate. 

393.  School :  Hawkshead  Free  Grammar  School,  founded  by  Arch- 
bishop Sandys  in  1585,  was  a  famous  classical  school  of  the  North  of 
England;    the  building  is  changed  but  little  since  the  poet's  time.     It 
rivals  in   interest  and  quaintness  the  Stratford  Grammar  School,  and, 
like  the  latter,  is  still  used.     There  is  in  it  a  library  presented  by  the 
scholars,  and  an  interesting  old  oak  chest  containing  the  original  char- 
ter of  the  school.     On  the  wall  is  a  table  containing  the  names  of  the 
masters.     The  oak  benches  are  somewhat  "insculped  upon,"  and  one 
of  them  contains  the  name,  —  William  Wordsworth.     This  the  Words- 
worth Society  has  had  covered  with  glass  to    preserve   it  from  relic- 
hunters.     Over  the  outside  door  is  the  old  sun-dial. 

394.  While  seated  in  the  churchyard  one  evening  in  the  summer  of 
1886,   perhaps   near   the   grave  of  this   boy,  this  scene  was  brought 
vividly  before  me  as  a  band  of  Hawkshead  children  came  through  the 
yard  from  their  sports  upon  the  hill  beyond. 


292  NOTES. 

397.  Grave :  The  grave  of  the  boy  cannot  be  identified.  Words- 
worth, in  a  note  on  these  lines,  mentions  one  William  Raincock,  a 
schoolmate  who  was  unusually  proficient  in  the  "owl  language  ";  but  as 
he  was  also  at  Cambridge  with  Wordsworth,  he  could  not  have  been 
the  "  immortal  boy." 

406-20.  May  she  long :  Rousseau  says :  "  In  my  time  children  were 
brought  up  in  the  rustic  fashion,  and  had  no  complexion  to  keep.  .  .  . 
Timid  and  modest  before  the  old,  they  were  bold,  haughty,  and  com- 
bative among  themselves.  They  made  men  with  zeal  in  their  hearts  to 
serve  their  country,  and  blood  in  their  veins  to  shed  for  her.  May 
we  be  able  to  say  as  much,  one  day,  of  our  fine  little  gentlemen, 
and  may  these  men  at  fifteen  not  turn  out  boys  at  thirty."  —  Letter  to 
D'Alemberi. 

421-25.  The  late  Dr.  Hudson  has  the  following  wise  comment 
upon  education :  "  Assuredly  the  need  now  most  urgently  pressing 
upon  us  is,  to  have  vastly  more  of  growth,  and  vastly  less  of  manufac- 
ture, in  our  education;  or,  in  other  words,  that  the  school  be  altogether 
more  a  garden,  and  altogether  less  a  mill."  —  Essays. 

441-42.  Snapped  the  breathless  stillness  :  Another  allusion  to  sound. 
See  also  Fidelity  :  — 

There  sometimes  doth  a  leaping  fish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer. 

491-95.  The  unconscious  forces  in  education  are  here  emphasized, — 
forces  which  we  often  make  so  little  of,  and  cramming  with  mere  in- 
struction, without  waiting  for  any  proper  assimilation  we  expect  im- 
mediate results,  thus  crushing  out  originality  and  the  poetic  spirit. 

"  Worldly  advancement  and  preferment  neither  are,  nor  ought  to  be, 
the  main  end  of  instruction,  either  in  schools  or  elsewhere."  —  W.  W. 

507-11.  Our  childhood  sits  :  In  these  lines  we  have  the  principle  of 
the  Ode  on  Immortality,  — 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy. 

522-35.  The  picture  here  presented  of  the  young  imagination  feed- 
ing upon  the  romantic  and  the  legendary,  is  one  which  may  well  cause 
us  to  tremble  when  we  think  of  what  the  corruption  of  that  imagination 
by  draughts  from  a  "  stagnant  pool "  may  mean.  We  should  remember 
that  those  appetites  "  must  have  their  food,"  and  that  unless  we  see  to 


NOTES.  293 

it  that  the  communion  is  a  holy  sacrament  of  the  mind,  it  will  be  a 
sacrament  of  evil. 

546—50.  Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

—  Ode  on  Immortality. 

561.  Friend:  As  unknown  as  the  boy  "who  blew  mimic  hootings 
to  the  owl,"  unless  it  be  the  one  with  whom  he  walked  "five  miles  of 
pleasant  wandering"  around  Esthwaite.  See  note,  line  333,  Book  II. 

563.    Lake  :  Esthwaite. 

570.  Passages  from  Pope  and  Goldsmith.  "The  first  verses  I  wrote 
were  a  task  imposed  by  my  master.  I  was  called  upon  to  write  verses  upon 
the  completion  of  the  second  centenary  of  the  school  (1785).  These 
were  much  admired  —  far  more  than  they  deserved,  for  they  were  but  a 
tame  imitation  of  Pope's  versification  and  a  little  in  his  style."  —  W.  W. 

586-605.  Who  in  his  youth,  etc.:  In  passing  from  childhood  to 
youth  he  was  most  attracted  by  the  poets,  and  Nature  gave  him  a 
keener  appreciation  and  a  deeper  insight.  Are  these  the  momentary 
flashes  which  illumine  our  childhood  path  and  then  pass  forever  out 
of  our  sight  "into  the  light  of  common  day"  ?  If  so,  it  were  better 
that  we  had  not  experienced  them.  Here  the  philosophy  of  Words- 
worth (which  is  nothing  else  than  his  genuine  common  sense)  helps 
us  in  our  perplexity  and  saves  us  from  becoming  morbid.  He  every- 
where teaches  that  the  joy  of  life  must  come  from  those  childlike 
emotions  which,  if  not  crushed  out,  become  the  most  fruitful  sources 
of  ennobling  the  character.  No  one  has  ever  taught  this  truth  with 
such  exquisite  power  as  has  Wordsworth.  Who  can  read  without 
emotion  the  following  words  of  old  Matthew?  — 

My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 

My  heart  is  idly  stirred; 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 

Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

This  philosophy  will  wear,  and  in  all  the  vicissitudes  of  our  life,  in 
grave  and  gay,  it  will  whisper  to  us,  "Waste  not."  See  Character 
of  the  Happy  Warrior. 


294  NOTES. 


BOOK  SIXTH. 

It  will  be  well  for  us  to  review  the  first  two  acts  in  the  poet's  life  in 
order  that  we  may  the  better  understand  the  third,  into  which  the  fol- 
lowing books  conduct  us. 

We  have  seen  how  his  love  of  Nature  was  begotten,  and  how  it  was 
nurtured  until  the  new  element  of  Humanity  is  introduced  by  his  Uni- 
versity surroundings.  We  have  been  with  him  in  those  sacred  moments, 
when  —  once,  in  the  gray  light  of  the  gloaming,  and  again  in  the  crim- 
son flood  of  dawn  —  he  felt  that  the  altar-flame  of  his  devotion  was 
kindled,  and  that  thenceforth  he  was  "  a  dedicated  spirit,"  a  priest  set 
apart  for  service  in  the  Sanctuary  of  Nature.  From  these  experiences 
of  his  we  have  learned  something  of  the  circumstances  under  which 
true  poetry  is  born  in  all  inspired  souls,  — 

From  Homer  the  great  Thunderer,  from  the  voice 
That  roars  along  the  bed  of  Jewish  song, 
And  that  more  varied  and  elaborate, 
Those  trumpet-tones  of  harmony  that  shake 
Our  shores. 

We  have  learned  that  both  religion  and  poetry  thrive  upon  the  same 
elements;  that  they  live  in  and  die  apart  from  human  interests  and 
feelings.  We  can  now  comprehend  what  Milton  meant  when  he  said 
that  poetry  must  be  Simple,  Sensuous,  Passionate.  In  its  origin  poetry 
is  based  upon  the  primal  and  universal  elements  of  our  nature ;  in  its 
method  it  is  sensuous,  —  flashing  truth  by  pictures;  and  in  its  aim  it  is 
passionate,  —  the  awakening  of  the  slumbering  sensibility  in  man  by 
infusing  into  thought  the  fire  of  emotion. 

We  are  now  ready  to  follow  him  in  his  return  to  the  University,  and 
on  his  visit  to  the  continent. 

6.  Granta  and  Cam  are  names  for  the  same  stream.  Granta-bridge 
is  the  Anglo-Saxon  for  Cambridge. 

14.    Rocky  Cumberland:  — 

And  now  he  reached  the  pile  of  stones, 

Heaped  over  brave  King  Dumnail's  bones; 

He  who  had  once  supreme  command, 

Lost  King  of  rocky  Cumberland.  —  The  Waggoner. 


NOTES.  295 

23.  Many  books,  etc. :    Being  a  year  in   advance  of  his  class  in 
Mathematics,  he  spent  his  time  mostly  with  the  Classics. 

24.  Disobedience :    Considering  the  circumstances  under  which  he 
was  sent  to  Cambridge,  it  would  not  be  unlikely  that  his  uncles  would 
be  dissatisfied  with  his  course.     It  required  courage  on  his  part  to  pre- 
serve the  "vital  soul"  under  the  routine  and  spiritless  drudgery  of  his 
Cambridge  instructors.     "  The  flood  tide  of  new  life  had  not  yet  set  in 
at  Cambridge;   she  was  still  slumbering."  —  MYERS. 

45-56.  Many  of  Wordsworth's  finest  poems  were  composed  before 
this  time  (April,  1804),  but  he  was  still  at  work  on  the  Prelude,  and 
had  in  view  the  remaining  parts  of  the  Recluse. 

76.  A  single  tree :  No  remains  of  the  ash-tree  are  now  to  be  seen 
in  the  college  grounds.  In  1808,  Dorothy,  on  visiting  Cambridge, 
wrote :  "  I  sought  out  a  favorite  ash-tree  which  my  brother  speaks  of 
in  his  poem." 

And  each  particular  trunk  a  growth 

Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine.  —  Borrowdale  Yews. 

00—04.  This  is  a  holy  faith,  and  full  of  cheer 

To  all  who  worship  Nature,  that  the  hours 

Passed  tranquilly  with  her  fade  not  away 

For  ever  like  the  clouds;  but  in  the  soul 

Possess  a  sacred  silent  dwelling-place.  —  PROF.  WILSON. 

Wordsworth  taught  that  the  origin  of  poetry  was  in  emotion  recol- 
lected in  tranquillity. 

99,  loo.  This  shows  that  the  reading  of  the  poet  was  not  very 
"vague  "  after  all. 

106.  Nature,  though  not  affording  him  so  many  facts,  had  yet  broad- 
ened his  understanding. 

no,  in.  Alluding  to  the  custom  of  forming  English  verse  after  the 
model  of  the  classics. 

117.  Though  advanced:  Before  leaving  Hawkshead  he  had  mas- 
tered five  books  of  Euclid,  and  Algebra  through  Quadratics. 

173.    That  loved,  etc.  :  — 

Then  twilight  is  preferred  to  dawn, 

And  autumn  to  the  spring.  —  Ode  to  Lyctus. 

180.    Bard:   Thomson.     Castle  of  Indolence. 


296  NOTES. 

189.  It  is  this  character  of  frankness  in  Wordsworth  which  renders 
the  Prelude  so  faithful  a  record. 

193.    Dovedale  :  A  rocky  chasm  not  far  from  Ashburn,  Derbyshire. 

194-200.  It  was  probably  during  his  second  summer  vacation 
that  he  was  restored  to  his  sister,  who  had  been  living  at  Penrith  with 
maternal  relatives. 

205.  Castle :  Brougham  Castle,  built  by  Roger,  Lord  Clifford,  and 
situated  at  the  junction  of  the  Emont  and  Lowther,  about  a  mile  from 
Penrith,  on  the  Appleby  road.  It  was  often  plundered  by  Scottish 
bands  and  in  the  Wars  of  the  Roses.  It  is  now  in  ruins.  See  song  at 
the  feast  of  Brougham  Castle :  — 

Armor  rusting  in  his  halls 

On  the  blood  of  Clifford  calls;— 

Quell  the  Scot,  exclaims  the  lance,  — 

Bear  me  to  the  heart  of  France 

Is  the  longing  of  the  shield. 

208.  Helvellyn  :   One  of  the  largest  mountains  of  the  lake  region, 
near  Grasmere  and  in  sight  of  Dove  Cottage. 

209.  Cross-fell :  A  mountain  near  Helvellyn. 

221,  222.  The  streams  with  softest  sands  are  flowing, 

The  grass  you  almost  hear  it  growing. 

Wordsworth  frequently  addresses  the  "  inevitable  ear "  in  us,  but 
the  rush  and  hurry  of  life  often  unfit  us  for  appreciating  these  finer 
tones  of  his  music. 

224.  Alary  Hutchinson  :  A  schoolmate  of  his  at  Penrith.  See  note, 
line  62,  Book  I.  Also  see 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight. 

229.    So  near  us  :   Wordsworth  married  Miss  Hutchinson  in  1802. 

233.  Border  Beacon :  A  hill  northeast  of  Penrith  upon  which, 
during  the  Border  Wars,  beacon-fires  were  lighted  to  summon  the 
country  to  arms.  On  the  2ist  of  June,  Jubilee  year  (1887),  the  border 
counties  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  were  illuminated  by  bon- 
fires upon  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  this  "  Beacon "  hill  being  one. 
The  fires  extended  from  Castle  hill,  Carlisle,  to  the  sea. 

237.  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  first  met  at  Racedom  in  June,  1797. 
Of  Coleridge,  Dorothy  wrote :  '•  He  is  a  wonderful  man,  his  conversa- 
tion teems  with  mind,  soul,  and  spirit." 


NOTES.  297 

240.    He  had  gone  to  Malta  to  regain  his  health. 

25 1 .    Etesian  :   The  mild  winds  of  the  Mediterranean. 

Be  true, 

Ye  winds  of  ocean,  and  the  midland  sea, 
Wafting  your  charge  to  soft  Parthenope. 

—  On  Departure  of  Scott  for  Naples. 

258.    Poetry  and  Philosophy. 

266-74.  A  blue-coat-boy  at  Christ's  Hospital,  London.  "Come 
back  into  memory  as  thou  wert  in  the  day-spring  of  thy  fancies,  Sam- 
uel Taylor  Coleridge,  logician,  metaphysician,  bard!  How  have  I 
seen  the  casual  passer  through  the  cloisters  stand  still,  entranced  .  .  . 
while  the  walls  of  the  old  Grey  Friars  re-echoed  to  the  accents  of  the 
inspired  charity  boy  !  "  —  LAMB. 

272.    Stream :    River  Otter  in  Devon. 

For  I  was  reared 

In  the  vast  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim, 
And  saw  naught  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars.  —  S.  T.  C. 

279.  Thou  earnest:  Coleridge  entered  Cambridge  in  February,  1791, 
one  month  after  Wordsworth  had  taken  his  degree. 

281.  Student:  Coleridge,  besides  the  Classics  and  Mathematics, 
studied  Philosophy  and  Politics. 

281.    Course:   See  Life  of  Coleridge. 

294.  See  Charles  Lamb's  "  Christ's  Hospital  Five  and  Thirty  Years 
Ago,"  in  his  Essays  of  Elia. 

322.  Robert  Jones,  a  college  mate,  to  whom  the  poet  afterwards 
dedicated  the  Descriptive  Sketches,  memorials  of  this  tour. 

340.  "We  crossed  at  the  time,"  wrote  Wordsworth,  "when  the 
whole  nation  was  mad  with  joy,  in  consequence  of  the  Revolution." 
In  August,  1789,  the  Nobles  in  the  Assembly  surrendered  all  their 
feudal  rights  and  privileges. 

342.    "  WTe  went  staff  in  hand,  without  knapsacks." — W.  W. 

346.  July  14,  1790,  when  the  king  swore  fidelity  to  the  new  Con- 
stitution; on  this  day  trees  of  Liberty  were  planted  all  over  France. 
They  went  from  Dover  to  Calais. 

350.  They  went  by  Andres,  Peronne,  and  Soissons,  to  Chalons,  and 
thence  sailed  to  Lyons. 


298  NOTES. 

355.    Villages:  — 

By  secret  villages  and  lonely  farms.  —  Descriptive  Sketches. 

362.       Her  road  rustling  thin  above  my  head.  —  Descriptive  Sketches. 

377.   July  29,  1790. 

395.   Landed:   At  Lyons. 

406.   A  singular  picture  of  the  "  moody  "  young  poet. 

418-29.  On  Aug.  4,  they  reached  Chartreuse,  a  monastery  situated 
on  a  rock  4000  feet  above  the  sea.  It  was  founded  by  St.  Bruno;  was 
despoiled  during  the  French  Revolution  and  the  inmates  driven  off. 

430.    See  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets. 

436.    Forest  of  Bruno,  near  Chartreuse. 

439.    Rivers  at  Chartreuse. 

480.    Groves  :  In  the  valley  of  Chartreuse. 

484.  Crosses  on  the  Spiry  Rocks  of  the  Chartreuse,  almost  inap- 
proachable. 

497.   From  July  13  to  Sept.  29. 

501.     Valleys:  — 

Ursern's  open  vale  serene.  —  Descriptive  Sketches. 
515.    Industry:  — 

Abodes  of  peaceful  men.  —  Descriptive  Sketches. 

519.    Vale:   Between  Martigny  and  Col  de  Balme. 

524.   Ridge  :  Col  de  Balme. 

528-40.  Compare  with  this  description  Coleridge's  hymn  to  Mount 
Blanc ;  also  Shelley's. 

563.  Built  by  Napoleon,  is  6628  feet  high,  and  connects  Geneva 
with  Milan. 

619.  Down  the  Italian  side  of  the  Simplon.  See  poem  on  the 
Simplon  Pass. 

624-40.  The  majesty  of  the  place  seized  on  him;  its  grandeur  and 
awfulness  ravished  him  beyond  himself,  and  the  stupendous  powers  of 
the  world  spoke  one  language  to  him,  —  he  was  lost  in  revelation. 

663.  The  banks  of  Lago  di  Como  are  mountains  3000  feet  high, 
with  hamlets,  villas,  chapels,  and  convents. 

665.  Pathways :  Narrow  foot  paths  are  the  only  communication, 
by  land,  from  village  to  village. 


NO  TES.  299 

670.     Verse  :    In  Descriptive  Sketches. 

700.    Gravedona  :   At  the  head  of  Lake  Como. 

723.    Night;    Aug.  21,  1790. 

764.  They  reached  Cologne  Sept.  28,  and  went  thence  through 
Belgium  to  Calais. 

769.  Was  touched :  He  went  to  the  continent  bent  on  seeing  Nature; 
he  found  sublimity  in  the  Alps  and  beauty  at  the  Italian  lakes.  The 
depths  of  his  soul  were  stirred,  and  began  to  assert  themselves  in 
creation;  the  power  of  expression  now  begins  to  dawn.  He  had  felt 
the  call  to  be  a  poet,  and  he  must  not  be  disobedient  to  the  heavenly 
vision,  although  his  course  might  seem  hardy  disobedience  to  friends. 


BOOK  SEVENTH. 

I.  First:    Feb.  10,  1799.     See  note,  lines  i-io,  Book  I.     In  a  letter 
dated  Grasmere,  June  3,  1805,  Wordsworth  says :    "  I  have  the  pleasure 
to  say  that  I  finished  my  poem  about  a  fortnight  ago."     Thus  we  are 
sure  that  the  last  seven  books  must  have  been  written  in  the  year 
1805. 

4.    Preamble  :    First  two  paragraphs  of  Book  I. 

6.  Transport:   The  Preamble. 

7.  Scafell :   The  highest  mountain  in  the  lake  district. 

II,  12.    Stopped:   It  is  evident  that  this  was  in  1802,  otherwise  we 
cannot  account  for    the   "  years "   intervening  before   "  last  Primrose- 
time,"  1804.     See  note,  lines  45-56,  Book  VI.  and  text. 

13.  Assurance:  Coleridge,  before  going  to  Malta,  urged  Words- 
worth to  complete  this  work. 

1 6.    Sum  m  er  :    \  804. 

31.  Will  chant:  This  book  must  have  been  begun,  then,  in  the 
fall  of  1804. 

44.  Grove :  John's  Grove,  so  called  because  it  was  the  favorite 
resort  of  the  poet's  brother,  Captain  Wordsworth.  It  is  but  a  few 
moments'  walk  from  Dove  Cottage.  You  pass  it  by  the  middle  road 


300  NOTES. 

to  Rydal,  opposite  the  famous  "  Wishing  Gate ";  from  it  there  is  a 
fine  view  across  the  lake  to  the  mountains  beyond. 

And  there  I  sit  at  evening,  where  the  steep 

Of  Solver  How,  and  Grasmere's  peaceful  lake, 

And  one  green  island  gleam  between  the  stems 

Of  the  dark  firs,  a  visionary  scene!  — Poems  on  Naming  of  Places. 

52.    Excursion  :    Related  in  Book  VI. 

54.  Quitted:  He  took  his  degree,  B.  A.,  in  January,  1791,  and  left 
Cambridge. 

58-65.  Undetermined :  He  went  at  once  to  visit  his  sister  at  Forn- 
cett  Rectory,  near  Norwich,  where  he  remained  six  weeks.  The  crisis 
of  his  life  lay  between  this  time  and  his  settlement  at  Grasmere.  He 
had  resolved  to  be  a  poet,  but  poetry  would  not  feed  him  unless  he 
prostituted  his  talents  and  wrote  for  the  crowd.  "  Flash  "  was  what 
would  pay,  but  he  could  not  reconcile  the  "  flash  line  "  with  the  line  of 
duty.  In  this  perplexity  of  mind  he  went  to  London,  and  roamed 
about,  noting  men  and  things.  All  the  time  his  friends  were  urging 
him  to  enter  the  church,  the  law,  or  the  army. 

68.  Three  years  :  It  is  evident  from  this  that  he  must  have  visited 
London  in  1788. 

81.    See  The  Seven  Wonders  of  the  World. 

112.    Whittinglon  .•  A  famous  citizen  of  London,  thrice  Lord  Mayor. 

121.  Vauxhall,  etc.  :  Pleasure  gardens,  now  built  over;  the  names 
are  applied  to  streets  in  the  city. 

129.    See  Sonnet  on  Westminster  Bridge. 

131.  Giants:   Gog  and  Magog,  sometimes  carried  in  the  pageant  of 
Lord  Mayor's  Day. 

132.  Bedlam:  Lunatic  Hospital,  built  in  1549. 

136.  Monument :  On  Fish  Street  Hill,  erected  to  commemorate  the 
Great  Fire  in  September,  1666.  It  required  six  years  to  erect  it;  it 
is  a  fluted  column  202  feet  high,  designed  by  Sir  Christopher  Wren. 

Tmuer :  The  most  celebrated  fortress  in  Great  Britain.  It  was 
built  by  William  I.,  and  has  been  used  as  royal  residence,  armory, 
prison,  treasure-house,  and  seat  of  government.  The  "Chamber"  is 
the  armory  in  four  compartments:  (i)  armor  of  Battle  of  Hastings, 
(2)  of  the  French  wars,  (3)  of  Henry  VIII.,  (4)  of  James  I.  and 
Elizabeth. 


NOTES.  301 

1 60.  Referring  to  the  custom  of  marking  the  house  in  which  some 
noted  man  lived.  7  Craven  St.,  Strand,  has,  "  Benjamin  Franklin  lived 
here." 

267.  Saddler's  Wells:  A  theatre,  named  from  the  spring  in  the 
garden.  Here  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  and  the  old  dramatists  were 
acted. 

297.  Maid :  Buttermere  is  about  fifteen  miles  from  Grasmere.  The 
"  Spoiler  "  was  afterwards  hanged  at  Carlisle. 

305.  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  must  have  seen  her  when  they  took 
their  tramp  through  the  lakes.  See  note,  line  74,  Book  I. 

382.   To  Cambridge,  1787. 

458,  459.  All  of  these  events  lose  their  triviality  when  considered  as 
necessary  parts  of  the  poet's  education. 

484.  His  father  had  set  him  to  learn  passages  from  the  best  English 
poets. 

491.  Stage :  Parliament,  when  the  debates  were  in  progress  on  the 
French  Revolution.  He  said,  "  You  always  went  away  from  Burke 
with  your  mind  filled." 

498.    See  Shakespeare's  King  Henry  V. 

529.  Theory :  See  Burke's  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution. 
It  is  not  easy  to  account  for  Wordsworth's  admiration  for  Burke,  as 
recorded  here  and  elsewhere,  when  we  consider  that  their  theories 
were  antagonistic;  one  taking  the  optimistic,  the  other  the  pessimistic 
view. 

564.  Death  of  Abel :    By  Solomon  Gesner,  born  in  Zurich,   1730. 
His  Death  of  Abel  was  translated  into  English  in  1 780.     Wordsworth 
probably  means  by  "  the  other  day  "  the  appearance  of  a  new  edition. 

565.  Bard :    Young,  author  of  Night  Thoughts. 

678.  St.  Bartholomew :  Henry  I.  granted  the  privileges  of  holding 
fairs  on  this  day;  but  as  they  had  deteriorated  to  cheap  shows,  they 
were  proclaimed  in  1850. 

744.  See  Shairp's  Poetic  Interpretation  of  Nature,  Ch.  XIV. 


302  NOTES. 


BOOK  EIGHTH. 

In  the  rush  and  roar  of  London,  caught  in  the  tides  of  her  feverish 
life,  Wordsworth  seems  to  have  been  drifting  aimlessly.  But  the  poet's 
heart  was  beating  in  his  breast  all  the  more  rapidly  because  of  the  con- 
trast of  the  city's  din  to  the  quiet  of  his  cloister  life  at  Cambridge,  and 
at  each  pulse  he  felt  himself  drawn  nearer  to  the  life  of  man.  Until 
this  time,  Nature  and  God  were  first,  and  Man  second;  here  in 
the  centre  of  the  great  metropolis  the  transition  was  made.  Now,  at 
the  beginning  of  the  Eighth  Book,  he  looks  back  and  gives  us  an  inside 
view  of  the  workings  of  his  own  soul  while  it  was  being  played  upon  by 
the  influences  of  Nature  and  of  Man.  The  value  of  Book  VII.,  of 
itself  the  least  interesting  in  the  Prelude,  is  not  grasped  except  by 
understanding  its  relation  to  the  following,  — 

"  There's  a  day  about  to  break, 
There's  a  light  about  to  dawn." 

1-20.  One  of  these  fairs  is  alluded  to  by  Dorothy  in  her  Grasmere 
Journal,  Sept.  2,  1800.  At  that  time  Coleridge  was  with  them  at  Dove 
Cottage.  "  We  walked  to  the  Fair  ...  It  was  a  lovely  moonlight 
night,  and  the  sound  of  dancing  and  merriment  came  along  the  still 
air."  The  annual  sports  of  the  North  of  England  at  Grasmere  resem- 
ble one  of  these  fairs,  — 

Bid  by  the  day  they  wait  for  all  the  year, 
Shepherd  and  swain  their  gayest  colors  don, 
For  race  and  sinewy  wrestling  meet  upon 
The  toumay  ground  beside  the  shining  mere. 
*  *  »  *  » 

No  banner  fame  they  boast,  no  high  emprize ; 
A  brother's  praise  the  simple  meed  they  ask; 
The  fullest  guerdon  of  the  stubborn  task 
The  love  that  lights  a  fluttering  maiden's  eyes. 

—  H.  D.  RAWNSLEY. 

48-52.  From  Malvern  Hills,  by  Mr.  Joseph  Cottle  (see  Prefatory 
Note  to  Book  I.). 

70-76.  Looking  back,  the  poet  sees  that  his  love  of  Nature  led  him 
on  to  the  love  of  Man. 


NOTES.  303 

78.    Gehol:  Hanging  Gardens  of  Babylon. 

98-100.  His  childhood,  passed  among  magnificent  scenery  where 
man  was  free,  was  moulded  by  the  simple  life  of  home.  The  men  were 
as  sturdy  and  incorruptible  as  the  mountains  themselves.  The  beauty 
of  his  country,  like  that  of  Switzerland,  was  more  beautiful  because  of 
the  liberty  of  soul  which  characterized  the  people.  The  freedom  of 
Nature  was  not  marred  by  "  man's  inhumanity  to  man."  This  idea 
Wordsworth  made  central  in  Michael. 

Of  shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 
Whom  I  already  loved;  —  not  verily 
For  their  own  sake,  but  for  the  fields  and  hills 
Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 

128.  These  shepherds,  living  as  they  did  so  near  to  Nature,  seemed 
to  his  young  imagination  but  another  aspect  of  the  life  of  the  hills.    The 
rocks  and  streams  were  vocal,  in   the  traditions  of  the  dalesmen,  with 
many  a  tale  of  suffering  or  heroism  amid  the  howling  winds  and  the 
driving  storms  which  often  destroyed  both  them  and  their  flocks.     See 
Fidelity. 

129.  Saturn  :  An  ancient  mythical  king  of  Latium. 
132.    Golden  Age:  See  Virgil  VIII.,  319. 

135.    Grecian  Song:  Polybius  IV.,  20,  21. 

139.    Arden:  See  Shakespeare's  As  You  Like  It. 

142.    See  Winter's  Tale. 

144.    Spenser:  Shepherd 's  Calendar  (May). 

145-63.  Some  of  the  rural  pastimes  are  still  kept  alive  in  the  region 
of  the  Lakes,  but  the  tourist,  with  his  fine  clothes,  pretension,  and 
presents,  has  done  much  to  create  dissatisfaction  in  the  breasts  of  the 
rural  folk.  At  Grasmere  and  Ambleside  the  custom  of  "  Rush  Bearing" 
is  continued,  in  memory  of  the  time  when  they  strewed  the  ground  in 
the  churches  with  rushes  gathered  from  the  lake-side.  It  now  occurs  in 
August,  and  the  rushes  wreathed  with  flowers  are  used  to  decorate  the 
church.  It  is  a  Children's  Festival,  and  to  see  them,  headed  by  a 
band  of  music,  march  through  the  streets,  singing,  — 

"  Our  fathers  to  the  House  of  God, 

As  yet  a  building  rude, 
Bore  offerings  from  the  flowery  sod 
And  fragrant  rushes  strewed,"  — 


304  NOTES. 

suggests  that  the  spirit  of  Wordsworth  is  still  moving  amongst  them. 
Never  do  they  forget  to  place  an  offering  on  the  poet's  grave. 
1 70.   See  The  Brothers. 

1 75.  Galesus  :  An  Italian  river,  famous  for  fine-fleeced  sheep. 

1 76.  Adria :  See  Acts  xxvii.,  27. 

1 80.  Clitumnus :  A  tributary  to  the  Tiber,  famous  for  its  snow- 
white  cattle. 

182.  Lucretilis :  A  hill  near  the  farm  of  Horace.  See  Ode  I.,  17. 
The  excellence  of  style  in  these  descriptions,  —  the  pulsation  and  thrill, 
the  exquisite  effects  of  metre,  the  graceful  and  natural  flow  of  words, 
the  art  of  concealing  art,  and  the  classical  atmosphere  pervading  the 
whole,  — show  in  a  peculiar  way  the  genius  of  the  poet. 

1 86.  Pastoral  track  :  At  Goslar,  near  the  Hartz  Mountains.  See 
Prefatory  Note,  Book  I. 

210.  Walls:  In  the  Fenwick  note  to  In  Germany,  he  says,  "I 
walked  daily  on  the  ramparts,  or  on  a  sort  of  public  ground  or  garden." 
—  KNIGHT. 

215.  Hircynian  :  Near  the  Rhine,  in  Southern  and  Central  Germany. 
See  Caesar,  B.  G.  VI.,  24,  25. 

217.    Channels:  Wastdale,  Ennerdale,  Yewdale,  etc. 

223-93.  Here  "  Nature  seems  to  take  the  pen  out  of  his  hand  and 
write  with  her  own  sheer,  bare,  penetrating  power."  In  this  there  is 
the  grandeur  of  the  mountains,  which  by  their  relation  to  man  ennoble 
and  glorify  him.  The  passage  is  unique  and  unmatchable;  it  is  char- 
acterized by  a  profound  sincerity  and  an  exquisite  naturalness,  accom- 
panied with  something  of  the  dramatic;  it  is  the  heart  of  the  poet 
beating  in  sympathy  with  Nature  and  Man. 

294-340.  Thus  it  was  that  the  poet  gained  his  firm  faith  in  the 
nobility  of  man.  He  did  not  find  evil  as  fast  as  he  found  good  in 
those  early  days,  for  he  read  his  first  lesson  on  Man  from  the  book  of 
Nature,  and  saw  him  in  his  setting  of  beauty  and  sublimity.  The 
voices  of  sea,  of  mountain,  and  of  forest,  testified  to  the  liberty  of 
Man,  and  educated  him  into  a  republican.  When  the  thick  veil  of 
custom,  of  artificial  manners,  of  pretension  and  display,  has  obscured 
from  our  view  the  natural  dignity  of  human  nature,  and  we  rate  men 
by  what  they  have  rather  than  by  what  they  are,  it  will  do  us  good 
to  listen  to  this  singer  of  "  humble  themes  and  noble  thought." 


NOTES.  305 

340-91.  Although  Nature  was  at  first  pre-eminent  in  his  thoughts, 
yet  his  vision  of  man  was  growing  clearer  and  clearer,  and  he  began 
to  unite  the  two  in  one  picture.  See  Tintern  Abbey  Poem.  (361)  Of 
tenderness :  See  Green  Linnet  and  Hartleap  Well.  (369)  Har- 
monious words  :  See  The  Evening  Walk,  written  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen, and  Descriptive  Sketches. 

408.  Rock:  It  is  difficult  to  determine  whether  this  alludes  to  Dove 
Cottage  or  Ann  Tyson.  If  the  former  is  meant,  the  rock  would  be  on 
Red  Bank;  if  the  latter,  it  would  be  on  the  hill  northwest  of  Hawks- 
head. 

421.  In  preface  to  Lyrical  Ballads,  he  says:  "  Fancy  is  given  us  to 
quicken  and  beguile  the  temporal  part  of  our  nature;  imagination,  to 
incite  and  support  the  eternal." 

459-    Thurston-mere :  Coniston  Lake,  not  far  from  Hawkshead. 

468.  The  following  eight  lines  are  recast  from  a  poem  which  he 
wrote  in  anticipation  of  leaving  school,  and  which  he  said  was  a  tame 
imitation  of  Pope's  versification. 

477.   High  emotion:  Poetry  written  before  1805. 

543.    Entered:  Probably  in  1 788. 

562.   Antiparos:  One  of  the  Cyclades,  containing  a  stalactite  cave. 

Den:  A  limestone  cavern  near  Ingleton  in  Yorkshire. 

619.  For  Wordsworth's  theory  of  diction,  see  Preface  to  Lyrical 
Ballads. 

631.  From  all  sides  knowledge  of  man  poured  in  upon  him,  and  he 
had  the  ability  to  grasp  it,  not  in  its  narrow  detail,  but  in  the  majesty 
and  loftiness  of  the  vast  and  immeasurable  power  of  humanity,  —  a 
power  for  evil  as  well  as  for  good. 

634.  The  following  ten  lines  illustrate  to  what  heights  of  sublimity 
his  imagination  was  capable  of  rising.  The  analogy  between  Nature 
and  Mankind  here  is  not  so  far-fetched  as  some  think.  The  sense  of 
ceaseless  activity  of  Nature  showing  itself  in  frost,  in  flood,  and  in 
lightning,  corresponded  to  the  rush,  the  passion,  and  the  strife  of  this 
sea  of  humanity. 

645.  As  he  had  read  the  face  of  Nature,  and  under  its  apparent 
frown  read  love,  so  here  he  looked  beneath  the  surface  and  grasped 
the  real  abiding  principle,  and  saw  that  manhood  was  even  more  manly 
when  contending  in  the  crowded  marts.  This  was  the  needed  sequel 


306  NOTES. 

to  the  picture  of  man  which  he  had  among  the  mountains,  and  it 
made  him  sympathetic  in  all  the  struggles  of  life. 

669.  This  was  the  thought  which  exalted  the  idea  of  man  above  all 
others ;  the  thought  of  Brotherhood  under  God,  the  Father  of  all. 

677-86.  Nature  had  been  his  guide  to  the  idea  of  the  unity  of  Man 
and  the  fatherhood  of  God,  and  had  developed  in  him  love  of  his  race; 
yet  he  often  sought  in  her  rest  and  refuge  from  the  lawlessness  and 
guilt  of  mankind. 


BOOK  NINTH, 

We  have  seen  what  impressions  Wordsworth  received  from  Nature, 
and  how,  beginning  at  Cambridge  and  continuing  in  London,  they 
led  him  up  to  the  study  of  Man.  He  now  loved  both  Nature 
and  Man,  and  his  enthusiasm  for  humanity  was  growing  day  by  day. 
After  spending  four  months,  February,  March,  April,  and  May,  in 
London,  he  visited  his  friend  Jones  in  Wales,  and  refreshed  himself  by 
communion  with  the  hills;  visiting  Menai,  Con  way,  and  Bethgelert; 
enjoying  the  splendor  of  the  Vale  of  Choyd;  and  upon  the  summit  of 
Snowdon  beheld  the  "  vision  "  recorded  in  the  last  book  of  the  Prelude. 
Yet  even  here  in  the  solitude  of  Nature,  the  voice  of  Humanity  sound- 
ing in  that  song  of  liberty  allured  him  to  the  theatre  of  Revolution. 
The  Revolution  was  not  confined  to  the  sphere  of  politics :  that  was 
only  one  feature  of  the  great  movement  toward  the  goal  of  equal  rights 
to  which  the  nations  were  tending.  It  was  a  return  to  Nature  in  all 
the  departments  of  life.  This  enthusiasm  for  Nature  took  form  in 
France  under  Rousseau's  extravagant  and  diseased  sensibility.  In 
Germany  the  same  feeling  was  manifested  by  Goethe,  who  combined 
the  poetic  with  the  scientific  aspect  of  Nature,  and  swelled  the  great 
wave  of  feeling  which  was  gathering  force  as  it  advanced.  In  England 
it  had  been  growing  into  form  for  half  a  century.  The  heralds  of  the 
day  arose  from  quarters,  and  under  circumstances  quite  unexpected, — 
from  the  sorrow  and  disappointment  of  Cowper  and  the  untaught  melo- 
dies of  plow-boy  of  Ayrshire,  —  the  one  in  his  invalid  nightcap,  the 


NOTES.  307 

other  in  his  blue  bonnet  and  homespun.  But  the  poet  who  was  to 
conduct  the  heart  of  England  to  the  love  of  rivers,  woods,  and  hills 
was,  in  the  autumn  of  1791,  leaving  Brighton  for  Paris,  about  to  plunge 
into  the  blood  and  furor  of  that  revolutionary  city. 

28.     Year  :    See  comments  above. 

35.    So  lately  :   With  Jones  in  1790. 

40.    Toivn :   Orleans. 

45.  Mars  :   In  the  west  of  Paris. 

46.  St.  Antoine  :    In  the  east  of  the  city. 

47.  Martre  :    In  the  north  of  the  city. 
Deme  :   The  Pantheon,  in  the  south. 

51.  Tossed:   On  May  4,  1789,  the  clergy,  noblesse,  and  tiers  etat, 
constituting  the  States  General,  met  in  Notre  Dame.     The  next  day 
the  tiers  etat  assumed  the  title  of  the  National  Assembly,  and  urged 
the  others  to  join  them.      The  Jacobin  Club  began  the  same  year. 
Madam  Roland  and  the  Brissotins  were  now  in  the  ascendant. 

52.  Palace:    Palais  Royal,  built  by  Cardinal  Richelieu,  and  pre- 
sented to  Duke  of  Orleans  by  Louis  XIV. 

68.  B  a  stile :  State  prison  and  citadel  of  Paris.  It  was  taken  and 
destroyed  by  the  Revolutionists,  July  14,  1789. 

71.  Truth:  Wordsworth  was  a  natural  republican,  and  hence  his 
indifference. 

77.    Le  Brun  :   Court  painter  of  Louis  XIV. 

132.  They  were  so  disgusted  with  the  Revolution  that  they  stood 
ready  to  join  the  emigrants  in  arms  against  their  country  under  Leopold, 
king  of  Prussia,  and  to  restore  the  old  regime. 

139.    One  :   The  Republican  general,  Beaupuis. 

176.  Carra,  Gorsas  :  Journalist  deputies  in  the  first  year  of  the 
Republic.  The  latter  was  the  first  of  the  deputies  to  die  on  the  scaf- 
fold. See  Carlyle's  French  Revolution,  Vol.  II. 

182.    Flight:   See  note,  line  132. 

214.  See  Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  II.,  Scene  viii.,  second  speech  of 
Prince  of  Aragon. 

216-17.  This  statement  is  as  true  now  as  when  it  was  written. 
Ruskin,  in  1876,  said  that  he  had,  in  his  fields  at  Coniston,  men  who 
might  have  fought  with  Henry  V.  at  Agincourt  without  being  distin- 
guished from  one  of  his  knights. 


308  NOTES. 

232.  "  Drawn  from  a  strong  Scandinavian  stock,  they  dwell  in  a 
land  as  solemn  and  beautiful  as  Norway  itself.  And  the  Cumbrian 
dalesmen  have  afforded,  perhaps,  as  near  a  realization  as  human  fates 
have  yet  allowed  of  a  rural  society  which  statesmen  have  desired  for 
their  country's  greatness."  —  F.  W.  H.  MYERS. 

265.    Posting  on  :   see  note,  line  132. 

281-87.  Thus  it  was  that  the  Revolution  touched  the  hearts  of  the 
young  and  imaginative  minds  of  England;  the  light  of  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth  seemed  about  to  dawn  on  men.  They  believed 
that  God  was  avenging  the  wrongs  and  injustice  of  the  rulers.  Cole- 
ridge and  Southey  were  beside  themselves  at  the  prospect  of  a 
Pantisocracy,  —  a  religious  socialism. 

290-321.  In  company  with  this  rejected  Republican,  Wordsworth 
lived;  they  were  kindred  spirits.  The  description  here  given  of  a  man 
whom  the  ideas  of  Revolution  had  changed  from  a  noted  gallant  to  a 
military  hero  illustrates  the  type  of  men  whom  great  emergencies  breed. 
Similar  events  produced  the  heroes  of  our  Civil  War. 

321-39.    Discussion  of  rights,  based  upon  universal  brotherhood. 

340-63.  The  oppression  and  tyranny  which  had  hindered  Man's 
progress. 

363-39.  Man,  his  noble  nature,  and  what  must  result  from  it. 
In  reference  to  321-389,  see  quotation  from  Senator  Hoar  in  the 
preface. 

392.  Rotha :   See  sonnet,  by  Rev.  H.  D.  Rawnsley,  in  the  preface. 

393.  Greta :   A  river  which  flows   past  the  home  of  Southey  at 
Keswick.     See  sonnet  to  River  Greta. 

Derwent :   See  note,  lines  270-75,  Book  I. 

409.  Dion  :   a  pupil  of  Plato's.     See  the  poem  Dion,  composed  in 
1816. 

410.  Both  Plato  and  Dion  tried  to  influence  Dionysus,  the  tyrant  of 
Syracuse,  but  did  not  succeed.     Finally,  Dion  was  induced  to  attempt 
the  deliverance  of  Syracuse.     See  "  Dion  "  in  Plutarch's  Lives. 

412.  Philosophers  who  assisted  Dion. 

413.  Syracusan  exiles. 

416.   Dion  sailed  with  800  troops,  and  took  Syracuse. 

451.    Angelica:   Character  in  the  Orlando  Furioso  of  Ariosto. 


NOTES.  309 

453.   Erminia  :   Heroine  of  Jerusalem  Delivered,  by  Tasso. 

481.  Romorentin  :   Capital  of  Sologne.      "It  was  taken  in  1356 
and  in  1429  by  the  English,  in  1562  by  the  Catholics,  and  in  1589  by 
the  Royalists."  —  KNIGHT. 

482.  Blois  :    Birthplace  of  Louis  XII.     In  XVI  century,  court  was 
often  held  there.     It  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  places  in  France. 
Wordsworth  went  from  Orleans  to  Blois  in  the  spring  of  1792. 

484.    Lady  :    Claude,  daughter  of  Louis  XII. 

491.  Chambourd :  Village  nine  miles  from  Blois,  noted  for  its 
chateau  and  park.  Francis  I,  Charles  IX,  Louis  XIII,  and  Louis  XIV 
held  court  there. 

501-41.  These  dreams  have  been  pronounced  chimerical;  yet  if 
they  are  to  prove  so,  the  spirit  of  Christianity  and  its  root-thoughts 
must  be  equally  chimerical.  It  is  this  deep  Christian  feeling  which  is 
the  parent  of  Democracy,  and  the  creator  of  the  idea  of  an  universal 
humanity.  Nothing  short  of  Christian  ideas  applied  to  the  relation  of 
men  to  one  another,  and  to  the  state,  can  solve  the  problem  which  is 
baffling  so  many  at  the  present  time. 

By  the  soul 
Only  the  nations  shall  be  great  and  free. 

547.  A  tale :  Vaudracour  and  Julia,  founded  on  a  tale  related  to 
Wordsworth  by  a  French  lady  who  was  an  eye-witness  of  the  scene 
described. 

553.  The  following  four  lines  are  the  prelude  to  the  above-mentioned 
poem. 


BOOK    TENTH. 

11.  Metropolis :  In  the  autumn  of  1792  he  left  Blois  for  Paris. 

12.  Fallen:  Aug.  10,  1 792,  the  mob  stormed  the  Tuileries  and  im- 
prisoned the  king  and  his  family  in  the  Temple.     In  December  he  was 
tried,  and  in  January,  1793,  executed. 

18.   Mogul:  A  corruption  of  Mongol,  the  name  given  to  emperors 
of  India. 


310  NOTES. 

19.  Agra   and  Lahore:   Cities  of  India  implicated   in   the  Sepoy 
rebellion. 

20.  The  Rajahs  were  the  native  princes  of  India,  and  the  Omlahs 
were  their  officials. 

40.  League  :  The  supposed  union  of  Louis  with  European  monarchs 
to  put  down  the  Rebellion. 

41.  Republic:  On  the  22d  of  September,   1792,  the  Republic  was 
proclaimed. 

43.  Massacre:  The  Danton  massacres  were  just  over;  they  lasted 
from  the  2d  to  the  6th  of  September. 

48.  He  arrived  in  Paris  in  October,  1792.  The  city  heaved  like  a 
volcano.  Robespierre,  one  of  the  "  Committee  of  Public  Safety,"  which 
believed  in  the  imprisonment  of  all  who  did  not  accept  the  extreme 
views  of  the  Revolutionists,  was  rising. 

56.  Carrousel;  Place  de  Carrousel,  a  public  square,  used  for  fes- 
tivals. 

63-93.  But  that  night:  This  passage  expressing  the  intensity  of 
feeling  of  the  young  poet  is  one  of  the  finest  in  all  his  poetry.  Al- 
though he  took  sides  against  Robespierre,  yet  he  held  fast  to  the 
principles  of  the  Revolution.  He  seemed  to  see  in  all  the  vengeance 
and  bloodshed  the  hand  of  God,  and  he  felt  that  in  the  end  Freedom 
would  win. 

95.    Orleans  :  See  note,  line  51,  Book  IX. 

in.  Jean  Baptiste  Louvet,  who,  when  Robespierre  was  summoned 
to  the  tribune  to  answer  to  the  charge  of  aspiring  to  the  dictatorship, 
and  asked  who  accused  him,  answered  "  Moi"  and  recited  crime  after 
crime,  until  the  tyrant,  who  had  abolished  the  worship  of  God  and 
declared  that  of  Reason,  was  cowered. 

1 14.  Robespierre  got  a  delay  of  one  week  to  prepare  an  answer, 
and  by  smooth  speech  finally  triumphed. 

120-90.  The  vein  of  optimism  running  through  these  lines  is  char- 
acteristic of  a  man  trained  as  he  had  been.  His  optimism  is  that  of 
one  who  firmly  believes  in  the  righteousness  of  right,  and  that  through 
the  eternal  Love  and  Justice  of  God  man  would  become  regen- 
erated. It  was  this  element  in  his  nature  which  made  his  poetry  of 
man  not  only  revolutionary,  but  Christian. 


NOTES.  311 

198-99.  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton:  Athenians  who  put  to  death 
the  tyrant  Hipparchus,  and  rid  the  city  of  the  rule  of  the  Pisistratidae, 
much  as  Brutus  rose  against  Caesar. 

222-31.  Such  was  the  fascination  of  the  terrible  city,  and  such  was 
his  sympathy  in  the  great  movement,  that  had  his  funds  not  given  out, 
he  doubtless  would  have  "seen  it  out,"  and  perished  with  his  friends, 
the  Brissotins.  He  returned  to  England  in  December,  1792. 

236.    Twice:  He  left  England  in  November,  1792. 

245.  To  abide :  He  remained  in  London  during  the  winter  of 
1792-3,  with  his  brother  Richard.  In  Dec.  22,  1792,  Dorothy  writes 
from  Forncett  Rectory :  "  William  is  in  London." 

247.  The  movement  of  Clarkson  and  Wilberforce  for  abolishing  the 
slave  trade.  See  Sonnet  to  William  Clarkson. 

264-65.  When  in  January,  1 793,  the  Republic  threw  down  the  head  of 
Louis  XVI.  as  her  battle  gauge,  and  England  joined  with  Holland  and 
Spain  against  France,  his  indignation  knew  no  bounds;  it  was  a  ter- 
rible shock  to  his  moral  nature.  If  England  was  to  disappoint  him, 
where  was  he  to  look  for  support? 

283.  Rejoiced:  This  is  the  culmination  of  that  idea  of  interest  in 
mankind  outside  of  the  bounds  of  England  which  began  in  the  poetry 
of  Goldsmith,  was  continued  in  Cowper,  and  became  so  intense  in  the 
"  Poet  of  Humanity,"  —  Wordsworth. 

315.  Red  Cross  flag:  Union  Jack.  When  the  crowns  of  England 
and  Scotland  were  united  under  James  I.,  the  red  cross  of  St.  George 
and  the  white  cross  of  St.  Andrew  were  ordered  to  be  joined  in  one 
ensign. 

316-30.  Wordsworth,  in  his  advertisement  to  Guilt  and  Sorrow, 
says :  "  During  the  latter  part  of  the  summer  of  1 793,  passed  a  month 
in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  in  view  of  the  fleet  then  preparing  for  sea  at 
Portsmouth,  and  left  the  place  with  melancholy  forebodings." 

331-75.  The  "Reign  of  Terror"  began  in  France  in  July,  1793. 
Mob  rule  and  terrorism  won  the  lead  against  the  Conservatives,  and  the 
guillotine  was  the  strong  arm  of  the  law  against  all  who  opposed  the 
radical  ideas  of  the  "  Committee  of  Public  Safety,"  and  the  Atheis- 
tical party  which  enthroned  the  Goddess  of  Reason  in  November, 


312  NOTES. 

381.  Madame  Roland,  wife  of  the  minister  of  the  interior  under 
Dumouriez;  his  opposition  to  Louis  XVI.  caused  his  dismissal  from 
office,  and  produced  the  insurrection  which  paved  the  way  for  the 
restoration  of  the  Girondists  to  the  ministry.  The  saloon  of  Madame 
Roland  was  the  rallying-point  of  the  Girondist  leaders.  The  Jacobins 
were  bent  on  the  death  of  M.  and  Madame  Roland,  and  she  was  be- 
headed on  Nov.  8,  1793.  When  upon  the  scaffold,  turning  to  the 
statue  of  Liberty,  she  said,  "  O  Liberty,  what  crimes  are  committed  in 
thy  name  !  "  Her  husband  committed  suicide. 

383.  O  Friend,  etc. :  The  result,  given  in  the  following  lines,  was 
not  a  strange  one  on  a  nature  like  Wordsworth's.  The  eclipse  of  his 
fair  idol  of  the  rights  of  man  was  almost  total. 

430.  The  love  of  Nature  had  been  superseded  by  the  love  of  Man, 
and  now  that  the  second  love  was  weakening,  the  crisis  was  near  at 
hand. 

436-80.  In  his  most  passionate  moods,  temperance  was  at  the  cen- 
tre, and  prevented  the  flame  of  emotion  from  consuming  him.  When 
he  looked  deep  into  the  roots  of  the  Revolution,  he  saw  that  God  was 
educating  the  nation  by  the  punishment  of  evil,  and  that  the  "  Reign  of 
Terror"  was  a  natural  sequence  of  the  greed  and  tyranny  of  the 
noblesse. 

491.   With  Jones  in  the  vacation  of  1790. 

496—7.  Jones!  as  from  Calais  southward  you  and  I 

Went  pacing  side  by  side,  the  public  way 
Streamed  with  the  pomp  of  a  too  credulous  day, 
When  faith  was  pledged  to  new-born  Liberty. 

—  Sonnet  composed  near  Calais,  1802. 

498.  Arras  :  A  town  one  hundred  miles  from  Paris,  celebrated  for 
its  tapestries.  The  birthplace  of  Robespierre. 

512.  The  reaction  from  the  "  Reign  of  Terror  "  had  set  in;   all  par- 
ties combined  against  Robespierre,  and  he  was  executed  by  his  former 
supporters,  July  28,  1 794. 

513.  The  day :  The  winter  of  1793-4,  Wordsworth  spent  in  Cum- 
berland, at  Keswick  and  Penrith.      This  journey  must  have  been  in 
August,  1794. 

515.  Over  the  Ulverston  sands,  where  the  waters  of  Windermere 
find  their  way  to  the  sea. 


NOTES.  313 

525.   Ulverston  is  not  far  from  Hawkshead. 

534.  At  Cartmell,  where  the  Rev.  William  Taylor,  master  at  Hawks- 
head  School,  1782-6,  was  buried.  Just  before  his  death  he  sent  for 
the  upper  boys  of  the  school  (amongst  whom  was  Wordsworth),  and 
took  leave  of  them  with  a  solemn  blessing. 

The  blessing  which  to  you 
Our  common  Friend  and  Father  sent. 

—  Address  to  the  Scholars  of  the  Village  School. 

536.    Besides  the  inscription  are  the  following  lines  from  Gray :  — 

His  merits,  stranger,  seek  not  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode,  etc. 

552.  The  writing  of  poetry  was  imposed  as  a  task  upon  the  boys  of 
the  Hawkshead  Sthool.  See  lines  Written  as  a  School  Exercise 
Anno  j&tatis,  14. 

576.  Another  star  of  hope  was  now  to  be  seen  above  the  horizon  of 
his  fears,  and  enthusiasm  was  rekindled  in  his  bosom  by  the  thought 
that  the  world  would  now  recognize  the  laws  of  righteousness. 

596-98.  On  his  way  to  Hawkshead  from  Furness  Abbey  and  Conis- 
head  Priory,  See  note,  line  102,  Book  II. 


BOOK  ELEVENTH. 

I.  Time :    The   "  Reign   of  Terror "    ended   with    the    death    of 
Robespierre. 

II.  In  the  people :    How  deep  was  that  faith  which  could  still  trust 
in  the  conscience  of  the  masses !      It  shows  what  an  influence  the 
honesty  and  sincerity  of  those  companions  of  his,  the  shepherds,  had 
had  upon  his  young  life. 

53-73.  The  dread  of  Revolution  in  England  was  in  consequence  of 
there  being  many  supporters  of  France  there.  The  habeas  corpus  was 
suspended,  and  some  Scottish  Whigs  were  ordered  to  be  transported. 

98.  /  began :  He  was  now  to  use  his  intellect  more  than  his  heart, 
and  to  study  man  as  a  citizen;  the  result  was  that  he  was  led  to  take 


314  NOTES. 

a  greater  interest  in  political  and  national  questions  than  any  poet  of 
his  time. 

105-44.  These  lines  first  appeared  in  the  Friend,  Oct.  6,  1809. 
They  were  written  in  1805,  and,  as  he  looked  back  on  the  dream 
which  was  now  becoming  fulfilled,  it  added  new  enthusiasm  to  the 
cause  of  Humanity,  and  made  him  the  champion  of  the  rights  of  man. 
It  also  furnished  him  the  impulse  to  write  that  philosophical  poem,  The 
Excursion. 

175.    In  1795. 

206.  In  this  act  his  last  hopes  of  liberty  suffered  eclipse,  and  he  was 
overwhelmed  with  shame  and  despondency;  yet  his  hatred  of  oppres- 
sion became  stronger  than  ever,  for  he  believed  that  in  this  movement 
all  the  darkest  events  of  the  old  regime  were  combined.  He  uttered 
his  indignation  in  that  remarkable  series  of  sonnets  on  liberty. 

223-320.  He  now  set  about  the  analysis  of  right  in  the  abstract,  and 
in  this  operation  even  the  grounds  of  right  disappeared.  This  was  the 
crisis  of  his  life.  He  now  plunged  into  the  nether  gloom  by  the  use 
of  this  critical  faculty.  He  grew  sceptical  of  faith,  which  could  not  be 
demonstrated  by  logic.  He  fell  under  the  absolute  despotism  of  the 
eye;  "all  things  were  put  to  question,"  and  he  began  to  think  that  this 
power  of  seeing  was  nobler  than  the  power  of  feeling,  and  to  judge 
that  all  his  life  had  been  conducted  upon  a  wrong  principle.  We  see 
this  experience  repeated  again  and  again  at  the  present  day.  The 
thraldom  of  sense  is  supreme,  and  true  love  of  Nature  has  no  resting- 
place.  The  scientific  spirit  dries  up  both  heart  and  conscience;  a  com- 
plex worldly  life  is  creating  a  worldliness  of  the  eye. 

333-48.  Then  it  was  :  In  the  winter  of  1794  he  joined  his  sister  at 
Halifax.  He  had  not  seen  her  since  1790.  She  had  always  been  his 
better  angel,  and  in  this  sickness  of  his  soul  she  knew  what  remedy  to 
apply.  She  visited  with  him  many  of  the  most  interesting  districts 
of  their  native  Cumberland,  and  amid  the  freshness  and  beauty  of 
Nature  his  feverish  spirit  was  soothed  and  healed;  he  was  brought 
back  to  his  true  self;  wandering  around  among  the  rural  people,  he 
partook  of  their  joys  and  their  sorrows;  and  in  this  occupation  his 
own  joy  returned.  The  world  has  loved  to  view  the  picture  of  the 
devotion  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  in  their  lives  of  sadness;  the 


NOTES.  315 

companion  picture  of  William  and  Dorothy  Wordsworth  is  not  less 
interesting  and  touching.  Mr.  Paxton  Hood  says :  "  Not  Laura  with 
Petrarch,  nor  Beatrice  with  Dante  are  more  really  connected  than 
Wordsworth  with  his  sister  Dorothy."  See  Dorothy  Wordsworth; 
or,  Story  of  a  Sisters  Love,  by  Edmund  Lee ;  also  Tintern  Abbey. 

360.    In  1804  Buonaparte  summoned  the  Pope  to  anoint  him  emperor 
of  France. 

376.    Coleridge  was   living   in   Sicily,  whither    he   had   gone   from 
Malta.     See  Vol.  IX.,  Knight's  edition  of  Wordsworth. 

379.    Timoleon  :  A  Greek  who  reduced  Sicily  to  order.     He  refused 
all  titles,  and  lived  as  a  private  citizen.     See  Plutarch's  Lives. 

418-23.    See  sonnet  on  Departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  for  Naples. 

434.  Empedodes  :    Philosopher  of  Agrigentum. 

435.  Archimedes:    Geometrician  of  Syracuse. 

437.    Theocritus:   Pastoral  poet  of  Syracuse.      See   Burns'   poem, 
Pastoral  Poetry. 

444.    Comates :  See  Theocritus,  Idyll,  VII.,  28. 
450.   At  Dove  Cottage.     See  note,  line  74,  Book  I. 


BOOK   TWELFTH. 

1-43.  Healing  had  been  ministered  to  a  mind  diseased,  and  he  now 
looked  upon  the  face  of  Nature  with  the  imaginative  delight  of  child- 
hood yet  with  a  fuller  appreciation  of  the  sources  of  her  beauty.  The 
experience  through  which  he  had  passed  had  strengthened,  matured,  and 
disciplined  his  mind,  so  that  it  became  the  fountain  from  whence  issued 
much  of  what  was  high  and  unworldly  in  the  thought  of  the  following 
generation.  The  harmony  of  thought  and  language  in  this  passage  is 
hardly  surpassed  by  that  of  the  Tintern  Abbey  poem;  the  notes  are  as 
joyous  as  those  of  his  own  skylark,  — 

With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river, 
Pouring  out  praise  to  the~Almighty  Giver. 

44-74.  In  this  review  of  his  struggles  he  is  more  minute  in  his  de- 
lineation than  heretofore,  and  shows  us  to  what  extremes  the  tyranny  of 


316  NOTES. 

sense  had  driven  him.  He  came  to  look  upon  the  heroic  in  Man  as  of 
little  advantage  unless  it  could  be  demonstrated  to  have  proceeded  by 
logical  processes;  hence  the  Epics  as  well  as  the  Lyrics  were  useless, 
and  all  study  and  enjoyment  of  them  a  mistake.  His  was  no  longet 
the  spirit  of  the  artist,  but  that  of  the  art  critic. 

88-151.  He  transferred  his  observation  and  analysis  now  from 
Man  to  Nature,  and  put  her  under  the  malignant  spell;  and  the  result 
was  the  denuding  and  unsouling  of  all  natural  scenes  and  objects. 
Nature  became  a  laboratory  instead  of  a  garden. 

151.  And ytt  I  knew  a  maid,  etc.:  The  reference  here  is  not  to 
his  sister,  but  to  the  first  meeting  of  Miss  Hutchinson,  who  afterward 
became  his  wife.  Next  to  the  blessing  of  that  sister,  who  conducted 
him  from  the  region  of  despair  and  spiritual  death  to  that  of  assured 
hope  and  enlargement  of  soul,  stands  that 

Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food. 
A  perfect  woman  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command. 

The  simplicity  of  her  manner,  and  her  soothing  and  sustaining  influ- 
ence is  celebrated  in  many  lines  of  the  poet's  later  works.  In  the 
companionship  of  two  such  appreciative  and  home-hearted  women,  he 
was  blessed  beyond  most  of  his  brethren  in  song. 

174-207.  Once  he  worshipped  without  criticising,  and  enjoyed  with- 
out dissecting;  but  the  miserable  carping  spirit,  which  he  now  pos- 
sessed, kept  him  continually  on  the  lookout  for  the  how  and  the  why,  — 
a  sort  of  malignant  motive-hunting. 

208-25.  Here  we  have  the  ground  idea  of  the  great  Ode,  —  the 
power  of  redemption  possessed  by  the  recollection  of  early  impressions. 
Looking  back  to  that  imperial  Palace  whence  we  came,  we  get 
nourishment  and  recreation  for  the  business  of  life.  It  is  this  element 
in  Wordsworth's  poetry  that  gives  it  its  unwithering  freshness,  its 
power  to  make  us  see  beauty  in  the  commonplace,  and  to  help  us 
idealize  the  real.  Thus  Wordsworth's  philosophy  is  not  a  theory;  it  is 
a  life.  It  had  saved  him  from  despondency  and  spiritual  death;  it 
will  recreate  all  of  those  who  will  but  put  themselves  under  its 
influences. 


NOTES.  317 

253-61.  It  was  in  truih,  etc. ;  For  similar  thought,  see  text,  364- 
391,  Book  VIII. 

261-71.  When,  etc.:  The  spiritual  freedom  which  sets  the  poet's 
imagination  into  action  seldom  fails  to  centre  it  upon  solid  foundations. 
In  this  he  differs  so  much  from  Coleridge,  whose  imagination  seems  to 
wander  through  the  mazes  of  every  new  association,  regardless  of  any 
focal  point.  In  lines  426-432,  Book  VIII.,  Wordsworth  dwells  upon 
these  differences  and  says :  — 

I  had  forms  distinct 
To  steady  me. 

272-86.   The  child  spirit  is  immortal. 

But  for  those  first  affections, 

Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 

Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 

Are  yet  the  master  light  of  all  our  seeing. 

—  Ode  en  Immortality. 

287.  One  Christmas  time :  This  was  evidently  1 783.  His  father 
was  then  living  at  Penrith,  and  the  led  palfreys  would  go  by  Kirkstone 
Pass  and  Ambleside.  From  Ambleside  to  Hawkshead  there  are  two 
roads  which  meet  within  about  two  miles  of  Hawkshead  village;  here 
there  are  two  crags,  either  of  which  would  answer  the  description. 

311-35.  Wordsworth  in  this  passage  corroborates  what  has  already 
been  said  of  his  susceptibility  to  sound;  he  is  always  listening,  and 
when  he  afterwards  recalls  the  scenes,  he  blends  sights  and  sounds,  the 
latter  often  being  the  most  prominent.  In  early  life  his  imagination 
was  too  masculine  and  severe;  the  terrible  pleased  him  more  than  the 
tender,  and  he  was  blind  to  the  sweetness  of  character,  and  the  repose 
of  the  landscape.  Through  the  humanizing  influence  of  his  sister  he 
was  softened;  she  gave  him  a- 

Heart,  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears, 
And  love  and  thought  and  joy. 


318  NOTES. 


BOOK   THIRTEENTH. 

l-io.  The  power  with  which  Wordsworth  illustrated  this  truth  makes 
him  one  of  the  greatest  teachers  and  benefactors  of  his  age.  He  is  no 
less  the  poet  of  contemplation  than  the  poet  of  passion,  and  the  lesson 
was  taught  him  by  Nature.  It  is  only  by  calmness  in  the  midst  of  pas- 
sion that  the  highest  beauty  in  poetry  is  attained.  All  of  Wordsworth's 
finest  poetry  is  the  result  of  emotions  recollected  in  tranquillity. 

They  flash  upon  the  inward  eye, 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude. 

1 1-47.  Returning  now  from  the  study  of  Science  to  the  beauty  and 
sublimity  of  Nature,  he  found  in  her  the  "  image  of  right  reason,"  which 
he  could  take  with  him  into  the  world  of  man. 

48-119.  His  emotion  being  now  under  regulation,  he  determined  to 
find  out  the  truths  of  human  life,  and  what  were  the  elements  of  per- 
manence in  human  feelings.  He  gave  up  his  sanguine  schemes  for  the 
regeneration  of  mankind,  and  turned  to  the  abodes  of  simple  men, 
where  duty,  love,  and  reverence  were  to  be  found  in  their  true  relation 
and  worth.  Here  he  found  that  human  heart,  — 

The  haunt  and  main  region  of  song. 

130-141.  His  wounded  heart  was  healed  as  he  experienced  the 
"  love  in  huts  where  poor  men  lie." 

He  wandered  far ;  and  much  did  he  see  of  men, 
Their  manners,  their  enjoyments,  and  pursuits, 
Their  possessions  and  their  feelings;  chiefly  those 
Essential  and  eternal  in  the  heart. 

.  141-60.  From  the  terrace-walk  in  the  garden  of  the  Cockermouth 
home  can  be  seen  the  hill  here  referred  to,  and  the  road  running  over 
its  summit.  The  road  is  now  only  a  foot-path,  but  was  then  a  public 
way  to  Isel,  a  town  on  the  Derwent. 

160-85.  The  riches  which  he  gleaned  from  these  mines  of  neglected 
wealth  made  him  the  singer  of  "  simple  songs  for  thinking  hearts,"  and 
essentially  the  poet  of  home.  He  learned 

How  verse  may  build  a  princely  throne 
On  humble  truth. 


NOTES.  319 

186-220.  Wordsworth  here  touches  the  core  of  our  modern  artificial 
life  and  thinking,  and  he  teaches  us  that  unless  we  estimate  life  by 
other  terms  than  those  of  matter  and  flesh,  we  are  but  hastening  the 
crisis  when  class  shall  be  arrayed  against  class,  —  we  are  sowing  the 
germs  of  another  Revolution. 

220-78.  This  passage  is  the  finest  in  thought,  and  the  most  perfect 
in  expression,  of  any  of  the  Prelude.  It  illustrates  the  courage  of  the 
man  who  dared  thus,  in  an  age  of  superficiality  and  pride,  to  fly  in  the 
face  of  all  the  poetical  creeds,  and  make  the  joys  and  sorrows  that  we 
encounter  on  the  common  high  road  of  life  the  subjects  of  his  song. 
Hence  you  will  never  find  the  man  who  passes  his  life  in  society  take 
any  interest  in  Wordsworth's  poetry;  it  breathes  an  atmosphere  too 
bracing  for  such  characters.  Frederick  Robertson  says :  "  A  man 
whose  object  is  to  have  a  position  in  what  is  called  fashionable  life  is 
simply  incapable  of  enjoying  the  highest  poetry." 

314.  Sarum's  Plain  :  In  1793  he  wandered  with  his  friend  William 
Calvert  over  Salisbury  Plain. 

353.  Unpremeditated  Strains :  The  Descriptive  Sketclies.  Cole- 
ridge happened  upon  these  when  an  undergraduate  at  Cambridge,  1 793, 
and  wrote  of  them:  "Seldom,  if  ever,  was  the  emergence  of  a  great 
and  original  poetic  genius  above  the  literary  horizon  more  evidently 
announced." 

361.   The  poets  did  not  meet  until  1797. 


BOOK  FOURTEENTH. 

I-IO.   In  the  summer  of  1793  he  visited  his  friend  Jones  in  Wales. 

35-130.  Of  this  vision  of  the  transmuting  power  of  imagination, 
Stopford  Brooke  says :  "  It  is  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  Words- 
worth's grand  style.  It  is  as  sustained  and  stately  as  Milton,  but  differs 
from  Milton's  style  in  the  greater  simplicity  of  diction."  Here  is  estab- 
lished the  harmony  between  God,  Man,  and  Nature.  In  this  expe- 
rience is  the  completion  in  Wordsworth  of  the  marriage  of  Mind  to  the 
Universe  and  to  God.  In  this,  too,  he  found  the  guide  and  anchor  of 


320  NOTES. 

his  being.  Eor  an  illustration  of  this  result  upon  his  poetry  see  Stanzas 
on  Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm  and  The  Yew-Trees  of  Borrowdale  ;  there 
is  nothing  like  it  in  English  poetry.  The  rapture  which  he  feels  in  the 
presence  of  the  life  of  Nature,  when  the  soul  of  man  receives  her  in- 
flowing soul,  is  a  deep  religious  consciousness  —  it  is  love  and  worship. 
Such  poetry  cannot  live  upon  appearances;  it  dies  in  an  atmosphere 
of  Positivism  and  Agnosticism,  for  "all  great  art  is  the  expression  of 
Man's  delight  in  the  work  of  God." 

168-69.  -By  ^ove  •'  ^°  great  poet  has  been  content  with  mere  outward 
Nature;  he  must  pass  through  it  to  the  soul  of  man.  Wordsworth 
never  rests  in  what  appears  to  the  outward  eye;  he  rests  only  in  the 
aspirations  caused  by  what  the  senses  reveal. 

188-92.  Even  the  love  between  man  and  man  must  rise  by  imagi- 
nation of  what  we  are  to  become,  or  else  it  is  not  spiritual;  it  does  not 
rise  above  natural  affection.  We  must 

Look  abroad, 
And  see  to  what  fair  countries  they  are  bound. 

Unless  imagination  can  look  to  the  celestial  mountains,  and  see  them, 
not  as  floating  clouds,  but  as  solid  substance,  spiritual  love  must  pine 
and  die,  and  there  can  be  no 

Blessed  consolations  in  distress. 

253.  See  Sparrow's  Nest  and  Tintern  Abbey,  "  What  was  once 
harsh  in  Wordsworth  was  toned  by  the  womanly  sweetness  of  his 
sister;  and  with  a  devotion  as  rare  as  it  was  noble,  she  dedicated  to 
him  her  life  and  service."  —  EDMUND  LEE. 

266-68.  Mary  Hutchinson.  See  She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight, 
second  stanza. 

281.  Wordsworth  said :  "He  and  my  sister  are  the  two  beings  to 
whom  my  intellect  is  most  indebted." 

311.   See  Advertisement  to  this  work,  page  I. 

353.  After  leaving  London,  1793,  he  went  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  the 
valley  of  the  Wye,  and  later  visited  with  his  sister  the  scenes  of  his 
youth  in  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland. 

355-69.  Calvert :  Raislay  Calvert,  a  young  man  much  in  the  same 
position  of  life  as  Wordsworth,  who,  although  he  did  not  write  verses, 


NOTES.  321 

could  appreciate  genius,  and  believed  that  Wordsworth  possessed  it. 
In  January,  1794,  while  Wordsworth  was  unsettled  in  his  plans  for 
life,  and  while  he  was  waiting  for  a  reply  to  an  application  for  a 
position  on  a  newspaper,  Calvert  was  taken  sick,  and  Wordsworth 
went  to  take  care  of  him  at  Penrith,  remaining  with  him  until  his  death. 
It  was  found  on  opening  his  will  that  he  had  left  Wordsworth  .£900; 
this  enabled  him  to  share  a  home  with  his  sister,  and,  in  1795,  they 
settled  at  Racedoun  Lodge,  in  Dorsetshire.  It  was  here  that  Coleridge 
visited  them  two  years  later. 

396.    See  prefatory  note. 

404-7.    The  Idiot  Boy  and  The  Thorn. 

419.  In  the  spring  of  1800  their  brother  John,  who  was  captain 
of  an  East  Indiaman,  came  to  their  new  home  at  Grasmere.  He 
thoroughly  appreciated  his  brother's  poems,  and  predicted  their  ultimate 
success.  He  remained  with  them  about  eight  months,  and  in  the  fall 
he  started  upon  the  voyage  which  he  intended  should  be  his  last,  as  he 
desired  to  live  with  his  brother  and  sister.  He  often  said  that  he  would 
work  for  them  while  they  were  endeavoring  to  do  something  for  the 
world.  In  February,  1805,  his  vessel  was  wrecked  off  Portland,  and 
all  on  board  perished.  There  are  touching  allusions  to  him  in  Elegiac 
Stanzas,  Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior,  and  Lines  siiggested  by 
seeing  Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm,  all  testifying  to  his  refined  taste,  true 
nobility  of  character,  and  devotion  to  his  brother  and  sister. 

430-54.  The  concluding  lines  of  this  "  anthem  of  a  beautiful  and 
holy  life  "  show  his  conviction  of  the  high  calling  of  a  poet.  In  the 
following  sonnet  to  Haydon,  the  artist,  he  has  given  expression  to  this 

ideal :  — 

High  is  our  calling,  Friend!     Creative  Art 

(Whether  the  instrument  of  words  she  use, 

Or  pencil  pregnant  with  ethereal  hues) 

Demands  the  service  of  a  mind  and  heart, 

Though  sensitive,  yet  in  their  weakest  part 

Heroically  fashioned,  —  to  infuse 

Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  Muse, 

When  the  whole  world  seems  adverse  to  desert,  etc. 

The  grand  determination  with  which,  abandoning  professional  life 
and  giving  himself  to  counteracting  the  "  mechanical  and  utilitarian 
theories  of  his  time,"  he  stood  up  against  ridicule  and  obloquy,  cannot 


322  NOTES. 

be  matched  in  literature.  Mr.  Edwin  P.  Whipple,  in  his  admirable 
review  of  Wordsworth,  says :  "  Wordsworth  never  will  be  a  popular 
poet  so  long  as  readers  do  not  distinguish  between  being  passionate 
and  being  impassioned,  and  who  prefer  strength  of  convulsion  to 
strength  of  repose;  readers  who  will  attend  only  to  what  stirs  and 
startles  the  sensibility,  who  read  poetry  not  for  its  nourishing  but  for 
its  inflaming  qualities,  and  who  look  upon  poetic  fire  as  properly  con- 
suming the  mind  it  animates.  Wordsworth  is  not  for  them  unless  they 
go  to  him  as  a  spiritual  physician  in  search  of  'balm  for  hurt  minds.' 
Placed  in  a  period  of  time  when  great  passions  in  the  heart  generated 
monstrous  paradoxes  in  the  brain,  he  clung  to  these  simple  but  essential 
elements  of  human  nature  on  which  true  power  and  true  elevation  must 
rest;  and,  while  all  around  him  sounded  the  whine  of  sentimentality 
and  the  hiss  of  Satanic  pride,  his  mission,  like  that  of  his  own  beautiful 
blue  streamlet,  the  Duddon,  was  '  to  heal  and  cleanse,  not  madden  and 
pollute.' " 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


"The  chief  glory  of  every  people  arises  from  its  authors." 

An   Introduction   to   the   Stiidy   of  Robert 

Browning's  Poetry.  By  HIRAM  CORSON,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Rhetoric 
and  English  Literature  in  the  Cornell  University.  5#  by  7^  inches. 
x+338  pages.  Cloth.  Price  by  mail,  $1.50;  Introduction  price,  $1.40. 

THE  purpose  of  this  volume  is  to  afford  some  aid  and  guidance  to 
the  study  of  Robert  Browning's  Poetry,  which  being  the  most 
complexly  subjective  of  all  English  poetry,  is,  for  that  reason  alone,  the 
most  difficult.  And  then  the  poet's  favorite  art  form,  the  dramatic,  or 
rather  psychologic,  monologue,  which  is  quite  original  with  himself,  and 
peculiarly  adapted  to  the  constitution  of  his  genius,  and  to  the  revela- 
tion of  themselves  by  the  several  "  dramatis  personae,"  presents  certain 
structural  difficulties,  but  difficulties  which,  with  an  increased  familiar- 
ity, grew  less  and  less.  The  exposition  presented  in  the  Introduction, 
of  its  constitution  and  skilful  management,  and  the  Arguments  given 
to  the  several  poems  included  in  the  volume,  will,  it  is  hoped,  reduce, 
if  not  altogether  remove,  the  difficulties  of  this  kind.  In  the  same 
section  of  the  Introduction  certain  peculiarities  of  the  poet's  diction, 
which  sometimes  give  a  check  to  the  reader's  understanding  of  a  pas- 
sage, are  presented  and  illustrated. 

It  is  believed  that  the  notes  to  the  poems  will  be  found  to  cover  all 
points  and  features  of  the  texts  which  require  explanation  and  elucida- 
tion. At  any  rate,  no  real  difficulties  have  been  wittingly  passed  by. 

The  following  Table  of  Contents  will  give  a  good  idea  of  the  plan 
and  scope  of  the  work :  — 

I.   The  Spiritual  Ebb  and  Flow  exhibited  in  English  Poetry  from  Chaucer  to 

Tennyson  and  Browning. 

II.  The  Idea  of  Personality  and  of  Art  as  an  intermediate  agency  of  Person- 
ality, as  embodied  in  Browning's  Poetry.  (Read  before  the  Brown- 
ing Society  of  London  in  1882.) 


110  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

III.  Browning's  Obscurity. 

IV.  Browning's  Verse. 

V.   Arguments  of  the  Poems. 
VI.   Poems.     (Under  this  head  are  thirty-three  representative  poems,  the 

Arguments  of  which  are  given  in  the  preceding  section.) 
VII.    List  of  criticisms  of  Browning's  works,  selected  from  Dr.  FurnivalPs 
"Bibliography  of  Robert  Browning"  contained  in  the   Browning 
Society's  Papers. 

From  Albert  S.  Cook,  Professor  of  English  Literature  in  the 
University  of  California :  — 

Among  American  expositors  of  Browning,  Professor  Corson  is  easily 
first.  He  has  not  only  satisfied  the  English  organization  which  devotes 
itself  to  the  study  of  the  poet,  but,  what  is  perhaps  a  severer  test,  he 
attracts  the  reader  to  whom  Browning  is  only  a  name,  and,  in  the  com- 
pass of  one  small  volume,  educates  him  into  the  love  and  appreciation 
of  the  poet.  If  Browning  is  to  be  read  in  only  a  single  volume,  this, 
in  my  opinion,  is  the  best ;  if  he  is  to  be  studied  zealously  and  exhaus- 
tively, Professor  Corson's  book  is  an  excellent  introduction  to  the  com- 
plete series  of  his  works. 

From  The  Critic  :  — 

Ruskin,  Browning,  and  Carlyle  all  have  something  in  common:  a 
vast  message  to  deliver,  a  striking  way  of  delivering  it,  and  an  over- 
mastering spirituality.  In  none  of  them  is  there  mere  smooth,  smuck 
surface :  all  are  filled  with  the  fine  wrinkles  of  thought  wreaking  itself 
on  expression  with  many  a  Delphic  writhing.  A  priest  with  a  message 
cares  little  for  the  vocal  vehicle ;  and  yet  the  utterances  of  all  three 
men  are  beautifully  melodious.  Chiefest  of  them  all  in  his  special 
poetic  sphere  appears  to  be  Browning,  and  to  him  Professor  Corson 
thinks  our  special  studies  should  be  directed.  This  book  is  a  valuable 
contribution  to  Browning  lore,  and  will  doubtless  be  welcomed  by  the 
Browning  clubs  of  this  country  and  England.  It  is  easy  to  see  that 
Professor  Corson  is  more  than  an  annotator:  he  is  a  poet  himself,  and 
on  this  account  he  is  able  to  interpret  Browning  so  sympathetically. 

From  The  Unitarian  Review,  Boston,  March,  1887  :  — 

More  than  almost  any  other  poet,  Browning  —  at  least,  his  reader  — 

needs  the  help  of  a  believing,  cheery,  and  enthusiastic  guide,  to 

the  weary  pilgrimage. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


113 


F.  A.  March,  Prof,  in  Lafayette  Coll.: 
Let  me  congratulate  you  on  having 
brought  out  so  eloquent  a  book,  and 
acute,  as  Professor  Corson's  Browning. 
I  hope  it  pays  as  well  in  money  as  it  must 
in  good  name. 

Rev.  Joseph  Cook,  Boston :  Pro- 
fessor Corson's  Introduction  to  Robert 
Browning's  Poetry  appears  to  me  to  be 
admirably  adapted  to  its  purposes.  It 
forms  an  attractive  porch  to  a  great  and 
intricate  cathedral.  (Feb.  21,  1887.) 

Louise  M.  Hodgkins,  Prof,  of 
English  Literature,  Wellesley  Coll. :  I 
consider  it  the  most  illuminating  text- 
book which  has  yet  been  published  on 
Browning's  poems.  (March  12,  1887.) 

P.  H.  Giddings,  in  "  The  Paper 
World"  Springfield,  Mass.  :  It  is  a  stim- 
ulating, wisely  helpful  book.  The  argu- 
ments of  the  poems  are  explained  in 
luminous  prose  paragraphs  that  take  the 
reader  directly  into  the  heart  of  the  poet's 
meaning.  Chapters  on  Browning's  ob- 
scurity and  Browning's  verse  clear  away, 
or  rather  show  the  reader  how  to  over- 
come by  his  own  efforts,  the  admitted 
difficulties  presented  by  Browning's  style. 
These  chapters  bear  the  true  test ;  they 
enable  the  attentive  reader  to  see,  as  Pro- 
fessor Corson  sees,  that  such  features  of 
Browning's  diction  are  seldom  to  be  con- 
demned, but  often  impart  a  peculiar 
crispness  to  the  expressions  in  which 
they  occur. 

The  opening  chapter  of  the  book  is 
the  finest,  truest  introduction  to  the  study 
of  English  literature,  as  a  whole,  that  any 
American  writer  has  yet  produced. 

This  chapter  leads  naturally  to  a  pro- 
found and  noble  essay,  of  which  it  would 
be  impossible  to  convey  any  adequate 
conception  in  a  paragraph.  It  prepares 
the  reader  for  an  appreciation  of  Brown- 
ing's loftiest  work.  (March,  1887.) 

Melville  B.  Anderson,  Prof,  of 
English  Literature,  Purdue  Univ.,  in 


"  The  Dial,"  Chicago :  The  arguments  to 
the  poems  are  made  with  rare  judgment. 
Many  mature  readers  have  hitherto  been 
repelled  from  Browning  by  real  difficul- 
ties such  as  obstruct  the  way  to  the  inner 
sanctuary  of  every  great  poet's  thought. 
Such  readers  may  well  be  glad  of  some 
sort  of  a  path  up  the  rude  steeps  the 
poet  has  climbed  and  whither  he  beck- 
ons all  who  can  to  follow  him. 
(January,  1887.) 

Queries,  Buffalo,  N.Y.:  It  is  the 
most  noteworthy  treatise  on  the  poe- 
try of  Browning  yet  published.  •  Pro- 
fessor Corson  is  well  informed  upon  the 
poetic  literature  of  the  age,  is  an  admi- 
rably clear  writer,  and  brings  to  the 
subject  he  has  in  hand  ample  knowl- 
edge and  due  —  we  had  almost  said 
undue  —  reverence.  It  has  been  a  labor 
of  love,  and  he  has  performed  it  well. 
The  book  will  be  a  popular  one,  as 
readers  who  are  not  familiar  with  or  do 
not  understand  Browning's  poetry  either 
from  incompetency,  indolence,  or  lack 
of  time,  can  here  gain  a  fair  idea  of 
Browning's  poetical  aims,  influence,  and 
works  without  much  effort,  or  the  ex- 
pense of  intellectual  effort.  Persons 
who  have  made  a  study  of  Browning's 
poetry  will  welcome  it  as  a  matter  of 
course.  (December,  1886.) 

Education,  Boston :  Any  effort  to 
aid  and  guide  the  young  in  the  study  of 
Robert  Browning's  poetry  is  to  be  com- 
mended. But  when  the  editor  is  ;ible  to 
grasp  the  hidden  meaning  and  make 
conspicuous  the  poetic  beauties  of  so 
famous  an  author,  and,  withal,  give  such 
clever  hints,  directions,  and  guidance  to 
the  understanding  and  the  enjoyment  of 
the  poems,  he  lays  us  all  under  unusual 
obligations.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  this 
book  will  come  into  general  use  in  the 
high  schools,  academies,  and  colleges  of 
America.  It  is  beautifully  printed,  in 
clear  type,  on  good  paper,  and  is  well 
bound.  (February,  1887.) 


THE  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH. 

Practical  Lessons  in  the  Use  of  English. 

For  Primary  and  Grammar   Schools.      By  MARY  F.  HYDE,  Teacher  of 
Composition  in  the  State  Normal  School,  Albany,  N.Y. 

'""PHIS  work  consists  of  a  series  of  Practical  Lessons,  designed  to  aid 
the  pupil  in  his  own  use  of  English,  and  to  assist  him  in  under- 
standing its  use  by  others.  No  topic  is  introduced  for  study  that  does  not 
have  some  practical  bearing  upon  one  or  the  other  of  these  two  points. 

The  pupil  is  first  led  to  observe  certain  facts  about  the  language,  and 
then  he  is  required  to  apply  those  facts  in  various  exercises.  At  every 
step  in  his  work  he  is  compelled  to  think. 

The  Written  Exercises  are  a  distinctive  feature  of  this  work.  These 
exercises  not  only  give  the  pupil  daily  practice  in  using  the  knowledge 
acquired,  but  lead  him  to  form  the  habit  of  independent  work. 

Simple  exercises  in  composition  are  given  from  the  first.  In  these 
exercises  the  aim  is  not  to  train  the  pupil  to  use  any  set  form  of  words, 
but  so  to  interest  him  in  his  subject,  that,  when  writing,  he  will  think 
simply  of  what  he  is  trying  to  say. 

Special  prominence  is  given  to  letter-writing  and  to  written  forms 
relating  to  the  ordinary  business  of  life. 

The  work  will  aid  teachers  as  well  as  pupils.  It  is  so  arranged  that 
even  the  inexperienced  teacher  will  have  no  difficulty  in  awakening  an 
interest  in  the  subjects  presented. 

This  series  consists  of  three  parts  (in  two  volumes),  the  lessons 
being  carefully  graded  throughout :  — 

Part  First.        For  Primary  Schools.  —  Third  Grade.  [Ready. 

Part  Second.     For  Primary  Schools.  —  Fourth  Grade.      (Part  Second  will 

be  bound  with  Part  First. )  \_Ready  soon. 

Part  Third.       For  Grammar  Schools.  [Ready  in  September. 

The  Rnglish  Language ;  Its  Grammar,  His- 
tory, and  Literature.  By  Prof.  J.  M.  D.  MEIKLEJOHN,  of  the  University 
of  St.  Andrews,  Scotland.  One  volume,  viii  +  388  pages.  Introduction 
price,  $1.30.  Price  by  mail,  $1.40.  Also  bound  in  two  parts. 

"O  EADABLE  in  style.     Omits  insignificant  details.     Treats  all  salient 
features  with  a  master's  skill,  and  with  the  utmost  clearness  and 
simplicity.     Contains :  — 


THE   STUDY  OF  ENGLISH. 


I.  A  concise  and  accurate  resume  of  the  principles  and  rules  of  English 
Grammar,  with  some  interesting  chapters  on  Word-Building  and 
Derivation,  including  an  historical  dictionary  of  Roots  and  Branches, 
of  Words  Derived  from  Names  of  Persons  or  of  Places,  and  of  Words 
Disguised  in  Form,  and  Words  Greatly  Changed  in  Meaning. 
II.  Thirty  pages  of  practical  instruction  in  Composition,  Paraphrasing,  Ver- 
sification, and  Punctuation. 

III.  A  History  of  the  English  Language,  giving  the  sources  of  its  vocabulary 

and  the  story  of  its  grammatical  changes,  with  a  table  of  the  Land- 
marks in  the  history,  from  the  Beowulf  to  Tennyson. 

IV.  An  Otilline  of  the  History  of  English  Literature,  embracing  Tabular 

Views  which  give  in  parallel  columns,  (#)  the  name  of  an  author; 
(£)  his  chief  works;  (<r)  notable  contemporary  events;  (if)  the  cen- 
tury, or  decade. 

The  Index  is  complete,  and  is  in  the  most  helpful  form  for  the 
student  or  the  general  reader. 

The  book  will  prove  invaluable  to  the  teacher  as  a  basis  for  his 
course  of  lectures,  and  to  the  student  as  a  compact  and  reliable  state- 
ment of  all  the  essentials  of  the  subject.  {Ready  August  \$th. 

Wordsworth's  Prelude ;  an  Autobiographical 

Poem.  Annotated  by  A.  J.  GEORGE,  Acting  Professor  of  English  Litera- 
ture in  Boston  University,  and  Teacher  of  English  Literature,  Newton 
(Mass.)  High  School.  [Text  ready  in  September.  Notes  later. 

''"PHIS  work  is  prepared  as  an  introduction  to  the  life  and  poetry  of 
Wordsworth,  and  although  never  before  published  apart  from  the 
author's  complete  works,  has  long  been  considered  as  containing  the 
key  to  that  poetic  philosophy  which  was  the  characteristic  of  the  "New 
Brotherhood." 

The  Disciplinary    Value  of  the   Study   of 

English.  By  F.  C.  WOODWARD,  Professor  of  English  and  Latin,  Wofford 
College,  Spartanburg,  S.C. 

'T'HE  author  restricts  himself  to  the  examination  of  the  arguments 

for  the  study  of  English  as  a  means  of  discipline,  and  shows 

that  such  study,  both  in  schools  and  in  colleges,  can  be  made  the 

medium  of  as  sound  training  as  the  ancient  languages  or  the  other 


THE   STUDY  OF  ENGLISH. 


modern  languages  would  give ;  and  that  the  study  of  English  forms, 
idioms,  historical  grammar,  etc.,  is  the  only  linguistic  discipline  possible 
to  th<j  great  masses  of  our  pupils,  and  that  it  is  entirely  adequate  to 
the  revolts  required  of  it  as  such.  He  dwells  especially  on  the  dis- 
ciplinary value  of  the  analytical  method  as  applied  to  the  elucidation  of 
English  syntax,  and  the  striking  adaptation  of  English  constructions  to 
the  exact  methods  of  logical  analysis.  This  Monograph  discusses 
English  teaching  in  the  entire  range  of  its  disciplinary  uses  from  pri- 
mary school  to  high  collegiate  work.  {Ready  in  August. 

English  in  the  Preparatory  Schools. 

By  ERNEST  W.  HUFFCUT,  Instructor  in  Rhetoric  in  the  Cornell  University. 

'TAHE  aim  of  this  Monograph  is  to  present  as  simply  and  practically 
as  possible  some  of  the  advanced  methods  of  teaching  English 
grammar  and  English  composition  in  the  secondary  schools.  The 
author  has  kept  constantly  in  mind  the  needs  of  those  teachers  who, 
while  not  giving  undivided  attention  to  the  teaching  of  English,  are 
required  to  take  charge  of  that  subject  in  the  common  schools.  The 
defects  in  existing  methods  and  the  advantages  of  fresher  methods  are 
pointed  out,  and  the  plainest  directions  given  for  arousing  and  main- 
taining an  interest  in  the  work  and  raising  it  to  its  true  place  in  the 
school  curriculum.  [Ready  in  August. 

The  Study  of  Rhetoric  in  the  College  Course. 

By  J.  F.  GENUNG,  Professor  of  Rhetoric  in  Amherst  College. 

'HIS  book  is  the  outcome  of  the  author's  close  and  continued  in- 
quiry into  the  scope  and  limits  of  rhetorical  study  as  pursued  by 
undergraduates,  and  of  his  application  of  his  ideas  to  the  organization 
of  a  progressive  rhetorical  course.  The  first  part  defines  the  place  of 
rhetoric  among  the  college  studies,  and  the  more  liberal  estimate  of  its 
scope  required  by  the  present  state  of  learning  and  literature.  This  is 
followed  by  a  discussion  of  what  may  and  should  be  done,  as  the  most 
effective  practical  discipline  of  students  toward  the  making  of  literature. 
Finally,  a  systematized  and  progressive  course  in  rhetoric  is  sketched, 
being  mainly  the  course  already  tried  and  approved  in  the  author's 
own  classes.  [Ready. 


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THE  LIBRARY 

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